


the world was young (the mountains green)

by holdmyhammer (longbottomed)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: ("some" meaning "a lot"), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Author took some liberties with the timeline, Battle of Azanulbizar, Healer Bilbo Baggins, Herb Lore, M/M, No Beta, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-The Hobbit, we dine like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-01 07:16:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21433945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longbottomed/pseuds/holdmyhammer
Summary: "No proper hobbit would willingly leave the Shire to trail around in bloody mud and tend to impudent, thankless royalty.” At that, he set needle to skin, and Thorin hissed.“Impudent,” he repeated and the hobbit looked up.“Indeed,” he said, not at all bothered by Thorin's frown, and continued stitching the wound closed.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Frerin & Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 70
Kudos: 302





	1. the mountains old

There lay Khazad-dûm.

Its three peaks reached towards the sky, towering even over the rest of the mountain range, almost endless in its glory. Of course Durin had chosen to carve his kingdom here. Nothing, not even Erebor in all its solitary splendour, came close to being as awe-inspiring as the trinity of Barazinbar, Zirakzigil and Bundushathûr. Thorin felt small and insignificant in their growing shadows.

He tore his gaze away from the snow-dusted peaks, letting it drop to the mighty gates at the roots of the mountains. They, too, were breathtaking still, even in their state. Rust had settled on their iron hinges, the silver embellishments were tarnished. The orcs had broken them open wide enough to allow them to enter, but Thorin was glad to see that it must not haven been an easy task. One of the great doors had been torn off half its hinges and leant now outwards, it's bottom edge ground into the stone. The other door had been pushed inwards, opening into Khazad-dûm. Blades had bit into its stone along the innermost edge, leaving welts and gaping wounds were some of the granite had been broken off. Both doors bore the marks of a mighty ram, a starburst of splintered granite cut in half between them. They stood not fully open, but had been torn apart wide enough to allow a row of a dozen dwarfs to pass through, shoulder to shoulder. A dozen dwarfs, or eight to ten orcs.

The sun was setting behind the snowy peaks, painting them the colour of the richest amethyst. Thorin's hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.

“My, aren't you eager?” Frerin said from beside him, his jest belied by the twin swords he was already holding. Thorin cocked an eyebrow at him and Frerin laughed, loud and full of mirth. Still Thorin heard the sharp edge to it, the bite left by the hunger for battle. Thus was Frerin's way, always eager for the excitement of crossed steel, the yield of flesh beneath a blade. Always eager to prove himself, the Second-born, to escape the shadow of his older brother.

The sun crept lower behind the triple peaks, turning amethyst into sapphire blue, dark as wave-less Mirrormere. Between the gates, screeches and war drums sounded.

Thorin reached out with his left hand, clasping Frerin's nape and pulling him in, knocking their foreheads together. Frerin laughed, a puff of ale-seasoned breath between them.

“Getting sentimental now, brother dearest?” he asked just as his hand came to rest on the back of Thorin's head. Thorin chuckled, feeling the pressure against his forehead increase as Frerin did his best to squeeze his head like a walnut between the throngs of a nutcracker. It had been a game between them, even as dwarflings barely old enough to hold a weapon. They'd butted their heads and pressed them against each other until one of them would yield. Often enough, it had been Thorin. Mahal must truly have fashioned Frerin from stone, for his skull was as hard as the densest granite.

Thorin squeezed his brother's neck until his fingertips dug into muscle and sinew, and Frerin let finally go. He glanced at the red mark on Thorin's forehead, grin wide and toothy.

“I ought use you as a battering ram,” Thorin said and pulled the shield from his back to buckle it to his forearm, “against any barriers these filthy orcs put up for us.” He looked towards the gates, a grin tugging on the corners of his mouth. “Why, had they used your thick skull against these doors, they would have been pounded to dust by it in a matter of minutes.”

Behind them, Dwalin's growl of a laugh rang out.

“Eh.” Frerin shrugged. “I'd like to see you try and lift me with these sticks for arms.” He flicked the flat of one sword against Thorin's upper arm.

“Cease your bickering,” Thráin interrupted before Thorin could form a response. The line of his mouth was hard and disapproving beneath his formidable beard, yet his eyes carried none of that. Their corners crinkled with a hint of amusement. Still he went on, “if you continue to behave like dwarflings, I'll send you to the tents, where you may wait out the battle as dwarflings should.”

“Of course, father,” Thorin said, and Frerin bowed his head. It would have been a demure gesture, had Thorin not caught the edge of his grin vanishing beneath the curtain of his many braids.

“Boys,” Thráin said and turned towards the gates once more. The sounds from within were growing ever closer and louder. Shrieks and guttural words too crude to be called a language, the steady roll of war drums. Thorin drew his sword and brought up his shield.

“Oi, brother,” Frerin whispered, eyes bright and dancing with the light of the fires that had been lit all over Azanulbizar. “Let's keep score, highest number wins.”

Thorin felt his brother's sharp grin mirrored on his own face. “Wins what?”

“Honour,” Frerin said, then winked at him, “and bragging rights, of course.”

“Of course,” Thorin said under his breath, inching forward as Frerin did the same. “I'll never let you hear the end of it.”

Frerin laughed. The sun vanished behind Moria's peaks.

Orcs spilled into the valley.

They fought through the night. Blades clashed and blood spilled. Orcs and dwarfs fell, fires licked at the darkness. Like a storm-wrecked sea of bodies and metal, the line of fighting curled and undulated, orcs pushing dwarfs away from Moria's gates, and dwarfs breaking through them again, reaching out towards their lost kingdom.

With the first rays of the rising sun the orcs retreated into Khazad-dûm's darkness, leaving their wounded and dead behind. The dwarfs withdrew as well to lick their own wounds, and gather strength for the next night.

“How many, then?” Frerin said around a mouthful of bread.

Thorin dragged a rag over his blade. It came back wet and black. “Thirty-eight.”

Frerin shouted, bits of bread spewing from his mouth. Thorin frowned at his boorish display and flicked a wet crumb from his shoulder. Frerin paid him no mind and washed down his food with great gulps of ale. He wiped his mouth and beard with the back of his hand, leaving a broad grin behind. Then he belched and put his mug down, loudly, with an air of finality.

“Ah, no sweeter victory,” he said, clapping his hands down on his thighs “than one over my brother.”

Thorin's brows wrinkled and he pressed his lips together. “So?” he growled.

“Thirty-and-nine, brother dearest!” Frerin said.

“Thirty-eight and a half,” Dwalin spoke up, without looking away from his sharpening of Grasper, testing the edge with a thumb. “Kill-stealer.”

“Alright,” Frerin conceded with a nod, “Thirty-eight and a half, then.” He furrowed his brows in mocked consideration. “Though that one had only lost use of one arm, so it should be thirty-eight and three quarters.”

Dwalin growled and dragged the whetstone against Grasper's blade in one swift movement.

“Fine.” Frerin raised his hands, smile curling one corner of his mouth. “Thirty-eight and a half.” Under his breath, he added, “and a quarter.”

The whetstone bounced off his temple into Frerin's lap and he yowled, jumping to his feet, a string of curses tumbling from his mouth.

“Brat,” Dwalin said.

They slept through the day and gathered in the late afternoon. The fires were lit when the sun began to set behind the triplet peaks and their shadows grew ever longer.

Thorin pushed the tent flap aside and stepped out into the cooling air, dragging a deep breath into his lungs. Inside the king's tent, the air was humid and stifling, breathed by too many lungs and warmed by too many bodies as the council sat and debated. As his father's heir, he was not exempt from their deliberations, even though his thoughts were rarely asked for and even less considered. Too young, they thought him still, and too rash.

Another deep breath of air as balm against the fires of his irritation. His gaze trailed along the line of soldiers meandering along the valley in a half circle around the gates, hoping to catch sight of a head of bright hair.

A hand clasping his right shoulder almost made him flinch, but he caught himself. Balin patted his shoulder, his smile kind and understanding. Thorin hated it. He felt like he was barely out of his eighties, and everything they still thought him to be.

Without a word, Balin passed him, walking along the mithril-white row of tents snaking towards Mirrormere. Thorin followed him with his eyes, and thought he saw a bobbing head of fair hair slip between the healers' tents and out of sight. Frowning, Thorin wondered what Frerin might need the healers for, already taking a step forward, when his brother's shout brought him up short.

Thorin twisted around and saw Frerin approach him.

“Ho, brother,” he called. “Off to the healers? Did the ale not agree with you?”

Thorin shook his head. It must have been another, then. Though fair hair was seldom seen among the dwarfs, Frerin was not the only one blessed with it. “I thought I saw you between their tents.”

“Oh? Whatever for?” Frerin raised his brows and widened his eyes. “You especially should know I cannot be bested in a fight,” he added with an air of innocence betrayed by the twitching of his mouth.

Thorin raised his chin and regarded him through lowered lids. “True, but I thought your giant head might have finally broken off your neck beneath the weight of all that smugness.”

Frerin boxed his shoulder and laughed. Together, they took their positions in the line of sharpened blades and gleaming armour.

The sun was setting. The war drums drew closer.

“Fourteen!” Frerin's voice carried across the sounds of battle. Thorin laughed, his sword sliding into flesh.

“Keep up, little brother,” he called back. “I'm already at twenty-three!”

Frerin cursed and Thorin laughed harder.

Another night of battle, another day of rest.

Thorin lifted his mug of ale to his face, inhaling deeply before taking a first swallow. “This,” he said and licked foam from his moustache, “tastes of victory.”

Frerin chuckled, knocking his boots together to dislodge the dried mud caked to their sides and soles. “Enjoy it while it lasts, o' brother mine.” His pipe bounced up and down, clamped between his teeth.

“I will,” Thorin told him, taking another sip and exhaling grandly. Frerin shook his head at him, amused.

“Ah, prince Thorin,” someone said, “and prince Frerin, if I'm not mistaken. Well met.”

Thorin looked up, and up, at the grey-clad man standing now at his left shoulder, filling the empty space between Frerin and him so suddenly as if he'd appeared out of thin air. The man was old, and tall even for his kind, his beard as long as any dwarf's. Pale eyes glanced back at Thorin from the shadows cast by a wide-brimmed, pointy, and grey hat.

“Although I have met you, Thorin, before,” the man said with a curl to his lips, and crossed his arms to reach inside his sleeves. “I don't think you remember. You were only a babe, then.”

A name flickered like a flame of realisation at the edge of Thorin's memory. “Tharkûn,” he said slowly. And then added, “well met.”

Frerin sat up straighter, glancing at Thorin before turning towards the wizard.

“Well met.” As Frerin was even less one to waste breath on diplomacy than Thorin, he went on, “what brings you here, Tharkûn?” His brows drawn together, he took a pull from his pipe. “Are you here to help?” Each word was accompanied by a small puff of smoke before he exhaled a twisting cloud into the warming noon air.

Tharkûn chuckled and pulled his hands from his sleeves, presenting a pipe. “In a way, yet not like you might imagine, young prince. But,” he went on before any of them could ask him to speak plainly, and held up the pipe, “for now I am the one in desperate need of help. Would you mind sharing some of your leaf? It appears I have misplaced my own.”

Frerin glanced at Thorin, who caught his gaze and dipped down his chin ever so slightly.

“Of course,” Frerin said and reached into the satchel at his feet. He held out the pouch of pipe-weed but pulled his hand back when Tharkûn reached out. “Come and sit,” he said as Tharkûn regarded him, brows inching towards the brim of his hat, “if we're to share some leaf, we might as well share the fire, too.”

“How generous of you, prince Frerin,” Tharkûn rumbled. “And I'll gladly accept. The pipe-weed, and the company.” His face seemed to brighten as he stepped over the edge of the log Thorin was sitting on and picked his way around the fire. With his hat he brushed sticks and dust off a large stone before he sat. “It shall be a nice change from the company I kept all morning. I have always found it refreshing to spend my time with the young. They often offer a different perspective.”

Frerin shifted a bit at being called young—as the young tended to do—while Thorin exhaled loudly through his nose. He pulled the pouch from Frerin's grasp and handed it over to the wizard.

“Our king's perspective does not satisfy you, then?”

Tharkûn barely hesitated while filling his pipe and only shot a quick glance at Thorin, mouth curving into a somewhat pleased smile.

“Glad I am to see you have grown into your own, prince Thorin,” he said as he gave the pouch back to Thorin, who took it with a nod and made to fill his own pipe. “Why, as I last saw you, you'd grown into barely anything, least of all your legs.”

Frerin laughed. “Amad always said you had sticks for legs.” And he made to shove Thorin, but Thorin leaned out of the way. Frerin kicked at pebble at him instead.

“You're avoiding the question,” Thorin told the wizard and flicked the pouch of leaf onto Frerin's lap. Tharkûn lit his pipe with a forefinger and took a few puffs, smoke creeping from the corners of his smile.

“I am, aren't I,” he said and pursed his lips.

Thorin said nothing in return, waiting. Frerin looked between him and the wizard, elbow propped up on one knee and chin resting on his palm, his other hand hanging between his legs, thumb twisting the ring around his middle finger. He took a drag from his pipe, exhaling through his nostrils.

“Tell me, prince Thorin, what do you hope to gain from reclaiming Moria?” Tharkûn asked finally, gaze trailing over the blood-soaked valley where a handful of brown-clad healers were picking their way through the bodies, looking for survivors, trailed by soldiers carrying away those who were beyond saving.

Thorin thought he caught a glint of bright hair catching the sun's light, but then it was gone again.

“A home for our people, of course,” he said.

Tharkûn hummed. “A fine cause indeed.” He blew a smoke ring across the fire, where it was quickly torn apart by the hot air rising from the flames. “That comes with a great price,” he added as he watched the healers go about their work.

Thorin inclined his head. “A price we're willing to pay for the halls of our forefathers.”

“Besides, where else are we to go?” Frerin scratched at his beard. “The Iron Hills have enough room, true, but barely enough food to fill their own mouths, not to mention Erebor's on top.”

“The Blue Mountains border on fruitful lands,” Tharkûn said. “Their veins of ore are plenty, and rich.”

Frerin glanced at Thorin and then looked at the ground, where he nudged a small rock with the tip of his boot. Thorin finally lit his own pipe.

“You have told our grandfather this,” he said. It wasn't a question.

“I did.”

“And what did he answer?”

Tharkûn folded his hands in his lap, around his pipe. “Something foolish.”

Frerin's head snapped up and towards the wizard, just as Thorin growled, “I would ask you to not call our king a fool, wizard.”

“You may,” Tharkûn said and tapped the pipe's bit against his bottom lip, “and yet I will continue to call him a fool as long as he insists on acting like one.”

Thorin opened his mouth, a protest at the tip of his tongue, when the wizard quickly looked up across the valley, eyes narrowed. Thorin followed his gaze and saw a group of healers huddling over something. Tharkûn knocked out the pipe against the side of his seat and stood.

“I thank you for the pipe-weed and the company,” he said and turned to go, then stopped. “You should know that there is more than mithril waiting in the depths of Moria.”

Then he left.

Frerin frowned after him. “I damn well hope so,” he said and crossed his arms over his chest, grinning. “Gold would be nice, too.”

Thorin kicked a bit of dirt at him.

“To think you fancy yourself the smart brother,” he said and shook his head at Frerin's protests. “Mahal wept.”

It was not their wager that kept him seeking out his brother's bright head of hair on the battle field that night. No, Thorin's eyes would always search for Frerin among the fighting, as surely as they would look for his father, and his grandfather. Even when the force surged and ebbed around him, he would look for them. Tharkûn's words had not changed that, but they had given him further incentive.

Dwalin was a reassuring presence at his back, mighty and wrathful. His cries of triumph and blood-hungry laughter rang out behind him, the slash of his axes the fiddles to his war song, the dull thud of his knuckledusters the drums beating an unsteady rhythm against flesh.

“I should keep score as well,” he called once, Grasper's blunt bottom curve hooked around the nape of an orc to propel it into his reach, Keeper biting into its side and making it squeal with pain. “I'd never lose the bragging rights.”

Thorin snorted and grunted, blocking a mace blow with his shield. His sword, Deathless, plunged forward, past the shield's side, swift and sure as a striking snake, and buried itself in the orc's unprotected side, past buckles and crude plating.

“You keep telling yourself that.”

Dwalin laughed and they were swept away towards the gates.

Around them, the dwarfs sang. Of mighty halls, of a king gone but never forgotten, of the lost kingdom they were eager to reclaim. Voices sure and deep, they sang for victory.

Thorin joined them, and fought, and sang.

“Ye,” Óin hollered, poking his head out of the tent and stabbing a forefinger in Thorin's direction, eyes narrowed, “yer royal highness, don't think I cannae see that arm, get in here.” He didn't wait for a reply before pulling back into the tent. Thorin debated for a moment if it was less disgraceful to heed the command like a dwarfling, or be later pulled by his braids towards the healer's tent once Óin found him. Really, he thought with a frown, someone ought to remind the healer that Thorin was royalty still, and no common soldier, and deserving of better treatment. Then again, Thorin would not be that someone, he decided as he slunk off towards the tent.

He pushed the flap open and couldn't help but grimace as his left arm twinged in protest. It was just as well that he was here, then, apparently his wound needed a bit more tending than he'd originally thought to bestow upon it.

“Come to feast your eyes on my misfortune, brother?” Frerin asked from one of the cots, looking at Thorin from the corners of his eyes. He was holding a rag to his left temple, the cloth already soaked with red. Thorin walked over to him, eyes roaming his brother's form for any more injuries. He was relieved when he saw no more than a few scratches and bruises. His gaze settled back on Frerin's face, which was pale apart from the dark rings beneath his eyes and the dirt splattered over the right half.

“To share the misfortune, more like,” Thorin said and indicated his left shoulder. “I'd rather take it up with another horde of orcs before ignoring Master Óin's,” here he paused before continuing, “_gracious_ _offer_ of care.”

Frerin snorted just as Óin harrumphed from a corner of the tent, where he was scrubbing his hands in a water bowl. “As ye should. 'Least one of ye didn't need to have some sense knocked back into yer thick skull.” He waved a hand at the chair by Frerin's cot. “Sit down, yer highness.”

Thorin did and Óin walked over to peer at the wound, humming as he pulled the studded leather sleeve aside.

“Ye'll live,” he said as he straightened. “But that'll need stitches.”

Thorin nodded. “Make it quick then.”

At that, Óin snorted and turned towards Frerin. “Ney. This one here needs my _gracious care_ more right now.” He tapped his fingers against Frerin's hand. “Let me take a look.”

Frerin hissed as he peeled the cloth away and complied when Óin turned his head towards the light with brisk hands. Óin whistled through his teeth and reached for a bottle of clear liquid, uncorking it.

“Nothing that cannae be mended with some stitches and a good rest,” he said and poured a generous amount of the liquid over Frerin's temple, making him curse and all but jolt from the cot. “Ah, stop yer whinging. Ye've had worse.”

“Surely not,” Frerin breathed, hands curling around the edge of the cot and squeezing his eyes shut as Óin used a clean cloth to dab none-too-gently at the wound. “Can't you bother Thorin for a while?” Frerin asked, eyes round as he looked at Óin.

“What did I tell ye about whinging?” Óin said but stopped his ministrations for a moment to jab a forefinger at a young healer that had just walked in. “Ye, make yerself useful and get me that beardless sprite.” The healer nodded and then quickly ducked back outside, eager to escape, it seemed.

“Beardless sprite?” Frerin mouthed at Thorin from beneath Óin's arm, and Thorin shrugged his hale shoulder, leaning back in his chair and getting as comfortable as the seat would allow. Which wasn't much, truth be told. His limbs felt heavy with fatigue and his muscles were sore, and there were no cushions to ease the wood's unyielding pressure on his bruised skin. But he'd slept and rested in harsher places, and Thorin would make do. He tipped his head against the backrest and closed his eyes, listening to Frerin's hissed complaints and Óin's short rebukes for a while.

“Master Óin, you called for me?”

The voice was breathless and high but lacked the timid nature the younger healers tended to carry whenever they addressed their elder. Thorin cracked one eye open and looked towards the tent flap. There stood the sprite, beardless indeed. Pointed ears poked out of a mop of curly hair, a few shades darker than Frerin's sun-bright braids, but that is where all similarities to the elves ended. The sprite's face was round, flushed from the cool air outside, or maybe running here, Thorin thought when the sprite walked over without hesitation, gaze on Frerin and brows wrinkled.

“Sure did,” Óin said without looking up from his work.

“Do you need help?” the sprite asked and walked towards the wash basin, pushing the brown sleeves of his healer's tunic up to his elbows.

“Not with this one,” Óin rumbled and nodded at Thorin, who slowly lifted his head and raised a brow at him. “That one there needs tending to. Just some stitches.”

There was a clunk as the water pitcher was sat down on the table, and the sprite blew out a labouring breath. Thorin twisted around to look over his shoulder, watching the confounding creature scrub a brush over his hands with purpose, a wrinkle between his brows and his mouth a thin line.

“I'm sure Bor could manage some simple stitches?” he asked, words clipped.

Óin shook his head. “This one needs better care than Bor's butchery, halfling. He needs soft hands.”

The halfling threw the brush into the basin and made to cross his arms over his chest, then stopped and held his hands up, loosely curled and away from his clothes. They were covered in dried mud, and darker splatters Thorin guessed were blood. “Surely there's someone else,” he said and glanced around the tent, gaze quickly brushing over Thorin, only hesitating for a moment on his shoulder. “I've got to--”

Óin cut him off, “Mahal knows ye've done all ye can fer him, halfling. Someone else can pour some broth down his throat now.” He nodded at Thorin. “Go ahead and stitch up that royal dunderhead while I see to the other one.”

Thorin waited for a reaction at the mention of his status, a demure apology perhaps, or some gushing, but he was quickly disenchanted when the halfling only sniffed and then grabbed a water pitcher. He made his way over to Thorin and looked down at him. Thorin matched his expectant gaze, raising his brows.

“Well, go on then,” the halfling said, “show me that wound.” And then, “your highness,” like an afterthought.

Thorin pressed his lips together and reached for the buckles of his armour, unclasping them while the halfling busied himself with preparations, putting the pitcher down on a small table at Thorin's side and gathering needle and thread. The halfling's hands indeed appeared to be soft, Thorin noted as he watched him put the thread through the needle's eye. And so small, just like the rest of him. Apart from his feet, Thorin found. They were surprisingly big and hairy, the soles thick and dark like leather.

Someone chuckled, and Thorin looked up to find Frerin grinning at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Frerin replied, and though his grin shrank a bit, it stayed where it was. Thorin furrowed his brows at him and wanted to demand what was amusing his brother so, when the halfling was back in front of him, a clean cloth in hand.

“Hold still,” he said and leaned in.

“Yes, brother, relax,” Frerin chimed merrily and Thorin took some pleasure from his yelp when Óin poked at his temple. He grinned at Frerin and then dropped his gaze to the halfling's bright curls. He was close enough now that Thorin could smell him: herbs, sweet and bitter, the metallic tang of blood, sour sweat, and earthy mud.

Thorin sucked down a breath, flinching when his wound stung as the halfling pressed the cloth over it. He turned his head to the side, looking away from the bright curls and those pointy ears.

“Do you always treat your patients so?” Thorin asked.

The hafling glanced at him without stopping his work and then snorted. “Óin was right. You do need soft hands, apparently,” he said and the next dab at Thorin's wound was not as careful. Thorin bit down on nothing and narrowed his eyes at the infuriating sprite.

“I meant your lack of respect.”

“Is this the patient speaking,” the halfing asked, “or the royalty?”

Frerin laughed at that. “The halfling's got some bite to him, brother. You'd better watch out.”

“The _halfling_ is right here,” the sprite said and grabbed Thorin's wrist, pulling his hand up to lay it against the cloth over his wound. “Hold that there.”

He reached for needle and thread and frowned at Frerin. “Did no one ever tell you to be nice to those attending to your wounds?”

Frerin offered him one of his most charming smiles. “Forgive my brother, Master Halfling, no one's ever taught him to play nice.”

“I'm sure your brother can ask for forgiveness himself,” the halfling said, the wrinkle between his brows only getting more pronounced as he looked at Frerin. “And I'd thank you to not call me halfling. I'm not half of anything, I'm a whole hobbit.”

“Master Hobbit, it is then.” Frerin nodded, which earned him a pinch to the ear from Óin.

The hobbit's mouth twitched into a small smile. It quickly vanished, however, when he turned back to Thorin and pulled the cloth away from his wound.

“I've never heard of a hobbit healer, especially one willing to travel to battlefields,” Thorin said. “I thought your kind kept to the kindly West.”

The hobbit laughed then. “And you'll likely never hear of one again. No proper hobbit would willingly leave the Shire to trail around in bloody mud and tend to impudent, thankless royalty.” At that, he set needle to skin, and Thorin hissed.

“Impudent,” he repeated and the hobbit looked up.

“Indeed,” he said, not at all bothered by Thorin's frown, and continued stitching the wound closed.

“Don't ye agitate Master Baggins,” Óin spoke up. “He's a fine healer, learned from Elrond Half-Elf, and that one knows his craft, despite the pointy ears.”

“Thank you,” the halfling said. “Though I really think you should stop holding Lord Elrond's heritage against him. He's very pleasant to be around.” He quickly pulled a suture tight and Thorin ground his teeth. “Unlike some.”

“Did _Lord Elrond_ teach you stitching, too?” Thorin bit out.

“That, I learned from the best,” Baggins said lightly and put a last suture in place before leaning back to gesture at his work. The row of sutures was neat and small, keeping the wound firmly together. Thorin caught his gaze and Baggins smirked at him. “My mother's cross-stitchings were a sight to behold. Now,” he wiped his hands on a cloth and dug into the satchel at his hip, pulling out a small tub of ointment, “rub that on the wound and wrap it up. I'll take my leave now. Master Óin.” He nodded at the healer and then stepped out of the tent, hurrying away to do Mahal knew what. Poking someone else with his needles and waxing-poetic about the leaf-eaters, likely.

“Well, that was entertaining,” Frerin said after a moment and smirked at Thorin. “What a feisty little creature. No bedside manner to speak of.”

“And he's better fer it,” Óin said and brusquely wiped some ointment onto Frerin's temple. “There's no healing to be done when the healer's busy prostrating himself at his patient's feet.”

Thorin rolled the small tub between his hands, remembering something.

“Who needs broth being poured down their throat?” he asked Óin, who sighed long and deep.

“Magna, that's who. One of Náin's,” he clarified when both Thorin and Frerin didn't recognize the name. “Got a nasty infection, that one. Fever finally broke this morning, but he's still not woken up. Master Baggins is the one who saved his leg, so ye better put that ointment to use.” He nodded at the still unopened tub and walked back to the wash basin, boxing the back of Thorin's head on the way. “And that's fer _yer_ bedside manner, yer royal highness.”

Frerin laughed so hard at him he almost toppled off the cot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've adjusted the Rating to Mature and tagged the warning for Violence. Though I try not to be graphic in my descriptions, this is war, and there's some violence to be expected.


	2. the world was fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All things from the Shire, may it be tea or food, or anything else, are best enjoyed with a pipe of Old Toby."

“You'd have us give up the halls of our forefathers, the halls of Durin himself, in fear of a creature not seen for centuries?!” Thrór brought his hand down on the great table, making mugs clatter and a startled scribe reach out for his ink pot before it could topple and spill all over his work. Thorin smoothed his features and stopped himself from wincing while his grandfather worked himself into a rage. “I won't allow it!”

“Then you are foolish indeed,” Tharkûn said and stood. He moved slowly, and seemed to grow like storm clouds crawling closer across a darkened sky, and his voice was thunder rolling. “Hordes upon hordes of orcs await you in Moria's mines, yet even they fear Durin's Bane. You would do well to do the same.”

Thrór's eyes were wide and wild, the white around his irises clearly visible, and spittle flew from his lips, “I don't need a wandering trickster wizard to tell me how to rule! Remember who you're talking to, Tharkûn!”

“I know just fine who I'm talking to,” Tharkûn said, voice like a storm, “a thick-headed dwarf who fancies himself king, too blinded by his hunger for gold to see the plight of his subjects!”

Someone gasped and Dáin jumped to his feet, reaching for his weapon. His father Náin's hand stopped him from doing anything rash, however. Thorin felt the urge to do _something_, too, but despite the grave insult to his grandfather's honour, he still had enough reason to know taking up arms against a wizard, no matter how old and weary he looked, was the wrong thing to do.

Thrór roared, and Thráin got up from his seat, pounding a fist onto the table. A mug fell over and spilled its contents over the harried scribe's parchment, then rolled off the table. Silence fell.

“Tharkûn,” Thráin said through his teeth, “we will forgive your insolence.”

“The nights of battle have been long,” Balin offered with one of his grandfatherly smiles, “tempers are running hot with victory so close, yet still out of reach. Affront was inevitable.” If only given the chance Balin could sweet talk even Smaug into surrendering Erebor. Thorin bit down on a snort. Maybe they should send Balin to flatter Durin's Bane into leaving.

Tharkûn nodded, but offered no apologies, Thorin noted. The wizard reached for his hat, which had been sitting on the table and was now dangerously close to the spreading ale.

“I cannot force you to see reason, King Thrór, but heed my warning. Only death awaits you in Moria. Smaug's taking of Erebor will pale beside the wrath Durin's Bane will unleash on you.” With that, he put the hat on and grasped his staff. As soon as he was through the tent flap, everyone started shouting all at once, voicing their anger or calling for reasonable debate, in Balin's case. The scribe was furiously scribbling away on a dry piece of parchment. Thorin slipped off his chair and out into the afternoon.

Tharkûn's tall form was hard to miss as it strode towards Mirrormere, and Thorin hollered after him. “Tharkûn! Where are you going?”

Without stopping, the wizard called back over his shoulder, “to spend the rest of the day in sensible company, prince Thorin! I've wasted enough of my time on those without common sense.”

The shouting from the tent rose to ear-splitting volume, and there was a great clattering and clunking that sounded as if someone had upended the table. Thorin's retort died a quick death on his tongue. He shook his head and followed the wizard.

“Wait!”

“I shan't! But you may join me, Thorin. Hopefully spending some time with rational folk will do you good. Eru knows you need it.”

Thorin ground his teeth and quickened his steps, trying to catch up to the wizard's long strides. Yet the distance between them stayed the same, for Thorin would not run, and Tharkûn only slowed down when they had reached the tents around Mirrormere. Then he stopped, looking around and giving Thorin time to draw close.

“Ah,” Tharkûn said and then began walking again. At a reasonable pace, at least, and Thorin walked at his side. Brown-clad healers flitted in and out of the tents, always in a hurry. There was a sense of attentive silence here, only broken by the occasional groan or shout of pain as they passed another tent. It stood in stark contrast to the rest of the camp, with its singing and bickering and companionable laughter.

Thorin furrowed his brows, wondering what Tharkûn might be looking for. His unspoken question was soon answered, however, when they stopped in front of a small fire. There sat the hobbit on a chair he'd dragged from one of the tents, feet stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed, pipe between his lips. A small pot hung above the fire, its contents bubbling.

“Gandalf,” the hobbit said, smiling. “I was wondering if you'd find the time today.”

“Of course I would.” Tharkûn returned the smile and sat on a stool next to the hobbit. It was tiny, compared to the wizard's size, so that he looked rather awkward on it, knees almost below his chin as he sat. Tharkûn hemmed and hawed until the hobbit finally got up from his chair and offered it.

“How very kind of you, dear Bilbo,” Tharkûn said and the hobbit waved it away.

“Of course, of course. Don't mention it,” he said and then finally looked up at Thorin, who was still standing on the other side of the fire, wondering himself what he was still doing here.

“Ah,” Tharkûn said, as if he'd forgotten, and cleared his throat. “Bilbo Baggins, meet Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, prince royal of the Line of Durin.”

Thorin bowed his head. A bit.

“We've met,” Baggins said with a smile and nodded at Thorin's shoulder. “How's the arm?”

Thorin rolled his shoulder. It only twinged a bit, the sutures pulling taut across his skin, and he shrugged then. “Fine.”

“Good, good,” Baggins said. And then, “do you want me to take a look?”

“No,” Thorin said, and Baggins blinked, opened his mouth and closed it again.

They were silent for some time, with Baggins sitting and peering up at him as if he was waiting for something, and Thorin standing across from him feeling out of his depth, like a miner in a garden.

“And, hmmm,” Baggins said, his forehead in wrinkles. He quickly glanced at Tharkûn, who was busy stuffing his pipe and whistling softly to himself. Baggins puffed his pipe and scratched at a spot of dried mud on his left knee. “What, hrm. Is there something else you need?” he finally finished.

Thorin gestured at the wizard, who had now lit his pipe and was blowing smoke rings, staring into the fire as if he was trying to find all answers to his problems between its embers. “Tharkûn brought me here.”

“Thar--? Ah, you mean Gandalf!” Baggins straightened in his seat and tugged at the wizard's sleeve, making him grumble and blink. “Gandalf,” Baggins said, “is there a reason you brought the prince here? I'm sure he has more important things to do than watch us have a smoke.”

“I don't mean to intrude,” Thorin said and made to go, but Tharkûn, or Gandalf as the hobbit had called him, seemed to have regained his bearings.

“Nonsense, Thorin,” Gandalf said. “Come, sit. Some calm and a pipe might do you some good after this farce of a council we had to endure.”

There was a moment in which Thorin wanted to protest that last statement, but it was fleeting, for his muscles were sore, and fatigue clung to his senses and weighted them down. His movements were stiff and slow as he unbuckled Deathless from his hip and the shield from his back. Then he sat against the log used for splitting wood and took out his pipe.

Gandalf leaned over and held up a small pouch of pipe-weed. “Try this.”

Thorin frowned at it. “More elf greenery?”

“No.” The wizard laughed. “This is from the Shire.”

Thorin took the pouch and filled his pipe, watching the hobbit busy himself with the pot and hanging it higher above the fire before dropping a small bag of herbs inside. He hummed softly to himself while he waited. Thorin knew this melody, knew it as every dwarf did, knew it since he'd been but a dwarfling bouncing on his mother's knees, listening with wide eyes as she sang.

These days the melody was sung around the fires of their war camp, heavy and low like a promise, like a spell being woven, with fists beating the rhythm against shields, and whetstones grinding against blade edges.

But the folk of the kindly west had no thought for dirges, Thorin found as Bilbo hummed, and the melody bounced and skipped like a spring brooklet through its stony bed, and trilled like a songbird from a tree's branch.

“Here.”

Thorin had not even noticed closing his eyes and yet he had to blink them open to find the hobbit crouching in front of him, holding out a mug. Steam wafted from it.

“A potion?” His voice scraped through his throat.

“Of sorts.” Bilbo chuckled as Thorin eyed the concoction and made no move to take it. “It's tea, your highness, nothing more.”

“Thorin.” It fell from his lips before he could stop himself, but he did not want to take it back. He watched as Bilbo blinked, surprised, and his mouth twisted as if it could not quite decide what to do. Then it curved into a smile.

“Thorin it is,” Bilbo said and plucked Thorin's still-unlit pipe from loose fingers, swapping it for the tea. “And it shall be Bilbo, also.” He slid the pipe's bit between his lips and lit it, releasing a few puffs of tangy smoke before handing it over once more. He smiled at Thorin as he said, “all things from the Shire, may it be tea or food, or anything else, are best enjoyed with a pipe of Old Toby.”

Then he stood, and walked back to his stool. Thorin dragged his gaze away from Bilbo's shoulders and towards the sky, where the sun was inching towards the three peaks of Khazad-dûm. Evening was approaching.

Thorin took a sip of tea and closed his mouth around the pipe's bit, and listened to Gandalf and Bilbo talking quietly. Warmth spread through his limbs and eased the tension in his muscles, dulled the twinge in his shoulder. He tipped his head back against the log and watched the sky darken.

So Frerin found him later, and nudged the tip of his boot against Thorin's ankle.

“Up you get, brother,” Frerin said, grinning down at him. “There's orc-killing to be done.”

Thorin let himself be pulled to his feet and stretched before crouching down and retrieving his weapon and shield. When he stood again, Bilbo was getting up, too, a small pouch in his hands. He held it out to Thorin, who took it and peered inside.

“Dried golden root,” Bilbo explained. “Tastes dreadful, but it will replenish your energy.”

Thorin pocketed the pouch and nodded. “Thank you,” he said and Bilbo smiled.

“Of course.”

Thorin turned to go, but a hand on his forearm brought him up short.

“Find me tomorrow, after the battle,” Bilbo said and cleared his throat. “I want to take a look at your shoulder.”

“I will.”

The hand slid from his forearm, and before he knew what he was doing, Thorin caught it, squeezing the hobbit's small fingers for a fleeting moment, and then quickly let go.

Frerin was silent as they walked towards the gates, but his grin spoke enough for both of them.

“Twenty-and-seven,” Frerin shouted, wrenching his sword from an orc's gut. His spirits were high as ever, despite—or maybe because of—the horde of orcs around them. The battle had brought them closer to the gates' northern side, cut off from the dwarven forces by a loose ring of Morgoth's dark brood. Dwalin was there with them, and Dáin, Náin's fire-haired heir, his great double-headed hammer blood-drenched.

They stood back to back, a small circle of sharp blades and fierce will, unyielding as the stone.

“A wager, cousins?” Dáin boomed. “Why dinnae ye say? Thought Ah might beat ye, hey?”

“Feel free to join us in keeping score,” Frerin said and threw a knife, embedding it in the eye-slit of an orc's helmet. The creature squealed and crumpled to the ground. “Twenty-eight!”

Dáin laughed. “Enjoy yer headstart, lad. Ah'll catch up tae ye yet. Nae one trumps me in killin' these buggers.” He spat on the ground, lips and teeth stained red as he grinned and hefted his hammer. It came down on an orc's head with a wet crunch. Frerin whooped.

“When the hammer falls,” he crowed and lunged for an orc, swords raised, “back our enemy crawls!”

Thorin brought up his shield, blocking an arrow coming for Frerin's neck, and cursed. “Focus!”

Frerin only laughed and shook his head. “That's what you're here for, brother!” And he threw himself at the approaching orcs with vigour, shouting more than singing the next lines of song, and Dáin joined him: “when the hammer falls, our victory calls!”

Victory called, and yet they could not answer. The gates were close, so close now, and still out of reach as Thorin hacked and slashed and shoved and kicked. Like water through a broken dam, orcs poured from the gates and into the valley, and Thorin cleaved his way through the onslaught, like a boulder in the surf. Frerin's fair head of hair was ahead of him, bright between the sea of dark armour and flesh.

“Frerin!” he called but there was no answer. Or maybe there was, but he could not hear, for the orcs were shouting now, one word, repeated over and over. First a few close to the gates, then more and more joined, until they called as one.

“Azog!”

Thorin whipped his head towards the gates, and there he was, corpse-white and almost as tall as a troll, scarred and ugly.

“Azog! Azog! Azog!” the orcs chanted, and there was a feeling like ice running down Thorin's spine as he watched the pale orc swing his mace through an oncoming line of dwarven soldiers, ploughing through their ranks as if there were nought but dwarflings. The orcs rallied and Thorin stumbled back from a blow to his shield. His boots slid over blood-wet stone and he lost his footing, one knee connecting painfully with the hard ground as his lower leg twisted to the side at an awkward angle, and another blow came down on his shield.

“Thorin!”

There was Dwalin, slashing a way through the assault and pulling Thorin up. He stumbled when a sharp spike of pain went through his knee, but caught himself before he could fall. Dwalin's hand was there, holding him by the shoulder and pulling him back and out of reach of an orc scimitar.

“Let's go!”

“Frerin,” Thorin said and twisted, looking over the orc horde for a bright head.

“'S fine,” Dwalin said and dragged him away from the gates. Away from Khazad-dûm, from victory. Behind the camp to the East, first rays of sunlight crept over tree crowns.

“The way I see it,” Frerin said and bit into his apple, “we kill the pale orc and the battle's won.”

“Do you never sit still?” Bilbo frowned at him.

“Apologies, Master Baggins.” Frerin grinned, cheeks round with food like a greedy rodent's, and a bit of juice dribbled into his beard. Bilbo wrinkled his nose and looked somewhat unhappy as he continued to clean the re-opened wound at Frerin's temple. He'd head-butted an orc to death, or so Frerin told the story. Dáin's version of things painted a very different picture: according to him, Frerin had simply tripped and torn the stitches on the edge of a felled orc's armour.

“It won't be that easy,” Thorin said and heaved himself from his cot, grimacing when every muscle in his body protested the movement. At least his knee felt a little better. They'd come to Óin's tent in the early morning, and Bilbo had been there. He'd looked them over quickly, and found neither of them in urgent need of help. Thorin had been ordered to lie on a cot and keep the leg still and cool it with a water-drenched cloth to lessen the swelling. Then Bilbo had run off to Mahal knew where and not returned until the sun was high in the sky. When he'd stepped again through the tent flap, his healer clothes were drenched in mud and blood and other fluids Thorin didn't want to spend time thinking on. Thankfully, Bilbo had peeled the brown tunic off and stood now in no more than a white shirt and a pair of brown britches, and braces of all things, as he tended to Frerin's sluggishly bleeding wound.

The hobbit looked small and vulnerable next to Frerin's broad form, and Thorin's gaze wandered over slender shoulders and followed the curve of a spine. No armour to speak of, only a thin piece of fabric between him and the rest of the world. Barely any muscle, and a roundness above his hips that spoke of a life lived with many a comfort.

“Thorin,” Frerin said, an edge of amused irritation to his voice, as if he'd been trying to get Thorin's attention for some time. Thorin glanced at him and found his grin wide and toothy, and far too knowing. “Why won't it be that easy?” Frerin asked lightly and raised a brow, gaze straying to the hobbit before snapping back to his brother.

“Because it never is,” Thorin said and lumbered towards the wash basin, filling it to the brim with cold water before dunking his face. He counted to ten and pulled back with a gasp, rubbing at his eyes and beard and combing sodden strands of hair away from his forehead.

“It could be,” Frerin said from behind him, words muffled, and another crunch told Thorin he was still eating that blasted apple. Thorin breathed deeply, knuckles turning white where he gripped the edge of the basin. “Orcs are nothing without a general to guide them. Who says they won't run when the pale orc's gone?”

“True, they know nothing but fighting and killing, and who says they won't continue doing so without rhyme or reason until someone stops them with a blade?” Thorin began unbuckling his armour, dropping it onto the chair at his side. How many more nights of fighting and restless days lay before them, he wondered. How long until they could finally claim Khazad-dûm as theirs again? Time was running out, and the enemy forces seemed endless. His muscles strained as he reached up to pull his shirt over his head, and he ground his teeth.

“Careful now, Master Baggins,” Frerin said. “I don't want to have to explain that I lost my eye to a healer's needle. That won't impress the lasses, see.”

“My apologies, prince Frerin,” Bilbo said and cleared his throat, “it has been a tiring night and morning.”

Frerin laughed. “No harm done, Master Healer. But I'll keep still for now.”

“Good,” Bilbo said, and chuckled as well, “I shall remember to poke you with my needles next time, if that will finally stop your fidgeting.”

Silence fell, only broken by the splash of water as Thorin washed himself, scrubbing sweat and dirt from his skin.

“There, almost good as new,” Bilbo said after a little while. “Though I must discourage you from head-butting any more orcs for now.”

“I'll try,” Frerin said. He got up from his cot and walked to Thorin, smacking his side. “Your turn, brother.”

Thorin grunted and returned to his cot. Bilbo was already washing his hands in another bowl, scrubbing nails and skin with a brush until Thorin thought he might scrape off his skin if he kept at it a little longer.

“Say, Master Baggins,” Frerin said then and the hobbit hummed. “You never told us what you're doing here.”

Bilbo snorted, dropping the brush into the basin, and crouched down in front of Thorin, hands sure and warm as they poked and prodded at the shoulder wound. “I'd think it was obvious. Healing.”

The hands dipped lower, feeling over ribs and dragging over a bruise. Thorin sucked in a breath of air.

“Sorry,” Bilbo mumbled, and his touch was lighter then.

“I think my thick-headed brother meant to ask what a hobbit is doing on a dwarven battlefield,” Thorin said and Bilbo sat back on his haunches.

“Battles usually produce wounds. Wounds need healing. Lift your arms.”

Thorin did and Bilbo nodded, grabbing Thorin's left wrist and elbow, tugging until Thorin followed his movements and twisted the arm to the side. He grimaced at the pain tearing through his muscles. Bilbo let go and retrieved a small vial from his satchel, unscrewed it and spread its oily contents between his palms. Then he reached again for Thorin's arm and began massaging the oil into his skin, nimble fingers digging into the muscles of his forearm and releasing tension he hadn't even known was there. Thorin breathed in deep and smelled pine and sage.

“You're avoiding the question,” Frerin said.

“And you're ignoring my doing so,” Bilbo countered, much to Frerin's amusement. He walked over and threw himself into the chair by Thorin's cot, kicking his feet up and crossing his ankles on the edge of the cot next to Thorin's thigh. Bilbo raised his eyebrows at them, which Frerin ignored.

“That's not sanitary.”

Thorin shoved at Frerin's feet and he pulled them back only to drop them onto Thorin's thigh. When Thorin glared at him, he only winked and turned back to the hobbit.

“You intrigue me, Master Baggins,” he said. “A hobbit of the Shire, so far from his home, trudging through the midst of battle to heal the—what was it? Impudent, aye?” He spread his hands and shrugged. “We can't be the only ones dying to hear your story.”

“It's not that interesting,” Bilbo said and let go of Thorin's arm. Thorin let it drop to his side, ignoring the prickling of his skin, while Bilbo spread more of the oil on his hands. His fingers found again the bruise beneath Thorin's ribs and rubbed at it with stiff movements. Thorin bit down on a hiss that was more irritation than pain and levelled a grave look at his brother. But Frerin was like a dog with a bone, and there was a small part of Thorin, oh so small, that didn't want to interfere. That wanted to know.

“Let us be the judges of that,” Frerin said and dropped his feet to the floor to lean in. His voice was low, imploring. “Why are you helping us, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire? Is there no lass waiting for you to return to her side?”

Bilbo stood so abruptly he almost knocked his head against Thorin's, and peered down his nose at Frerin, eyebrows drawn and lips pressed into a thin line, hands on his hips.

“Impudent indeed. You're proving it right now, prying like this when you've been told no in so many ways but for the actual word,” he scolded, his cheeks and neck stained pink. “Princeling, I should call you from now on, for you keep acting like one. Just when you were growing on me. Well, I never!”

He sucked down a deep breath and thrust a finger at the small vial lying next to Thorin on the cot. “Wolfsbane, for the bruises and sore muscles. Don't use it all.” And then he turned on his heel and left.

They stared after him for a moment, dumbstruck.

Finally, Frerin furrowed his brows and mumbled, “that didn't go as planned.”

Without looking, Thorin reached out to grasp one of the many blond braids, and _pulled_.

Frerin's yelp of pain gave him only a small amount of satisfaction.

“How's the knee?” Dwalin asked as Thorin came to stand beside him.

“It'll pass,” Thorin said. “As long as I can move, I will fight.”

Dwalin raised a brow at him. “Why dinnae the halfling take a look?”

Thorin turned his head and looked at Frerin, who was squirming at his other side. “Yes,” Thorin drawled, “why didn't he?”

“Well,” Frerin said with a grimace. “It's actually a funny story--”

“No,” Thorin growled, “it really is not.”

He'd fallen behind, of course he had. That blasted knee. Thorin spat out, the taste of bitter golden root lingering in his mouth as he took a deep breath and gathered himself. Strands of hair clung to his sweaty face and his lungs burned. His pulse throbbed in his knee, and every step sent a jolt of pain through it, but he ground his teeth against it and clambered onto a boulder at the edge of the rock plateau that spread before the gates.

Bodies lay before him, slumped and tangled, a many-limbed, dark mess of blood and flesh. There was no telling where dwarf began and orc ended. The fight had swept past him and rolled like a wave against the gates, devastation in its wake. There was no counting the losses, nothing to say but enough, or perhaps, _too much_.

Thorin wiped at his brow, feeling the rush of battle depleting, leaving him drained and tired, and all too aware of Gandalf's words. No price was too high, he reminded himself as his gaze dragged over those that had paid. No price too high.

The words started to lose their meaning as he stepped over broken bodies and dropped blades, blood turning the ground slippery beneath his feet. His hand cramped around Deathless until his knuckles creaked.

“No, don't you do that!”

Thorin had his sword raised and whipped around in the direction of the voice before he'd even understood what had been said. For a moment, he saw three large vultures crouching over a fallen dwarf, and then he blinked and they were healers, tunics soiled and heads bent as they worked.

“You'll be fine,” one of them said, and his voice allowed no contradictions. Thorin knew that tone of voice, the no-nonsense approach Bilbo took to healing, when his soft, and sometimes fussy, demeanour turned into unwavering confidence.

“Right as rain, in fact,” Bilbo grunted. Thorin's heart was in his throat and suddenly he was beside them, words out of his mouth before he could even think on swallowing them down:

“What are you doing here?”

Bilbo turned his face towards him for only a glance, but it was enough to see that he was covered in dirt, a drying streak of blood on his forehead like flaking warpaint, lank curls clinging to his moist skin. His mouth was a hard, pale line.

“What's it look like,” he bit out, hands white-knuckled around the stick he had shoved between the hastily wrapped bandages around his patient's leg. The dwarf on the ground was pale and sweaty, trembling hands clenching at the fabric of his bloody trousers. He moaned when Bilbo twisted the stick another time, tightening the bandage.

“Hold that.” Bilbo pried one of the dwarf's hands away from his trousers and wrapped it around the stick. “And don't let go. Bor, Thúr!”

The two other healers stood, taking hold of the wounded dwarf's shoulders and feet respectively to lift him between themselves and onto a stretcher that lay to the side. There was a rusty brown stain on its linen, and Thorin swallowed.

“Get him to Óin, quick.”

The two dwarves nodded, the stretcher already between them as they swiftly began walking towards the healers' tents, and if Thorin thought Bilbo might follow, he was sorely disappointed. For Bilbo bent down, throwing the strap of a large bag over his shoulder, and walked past him, away from the tents, towards the gates, gaze scanning the ground and its many bodies.

Thorin caught him by the back of his tunic, making Bilbo slip and stumble against his chest. Bilbo glared up at him, hand pushing at Thorin's chest as he tried to twist away, mouth already open for a scolding.

Thorin was quicker, and jerked at Bilbo's tunic roughly. “What are you doing?”

“Saving lives,” Bilbo said, shoving at Thorin's chest once more, “at least I would, if you'd let me move!”

“Where's your weapon?”

Bilbo let go of Thorin's chest and tried to cross his arms in front of him, bumping them into Thorin awkwardly. So Thorin let go of the tunic to allow a bit of room between them, but grabbed Bilbo's arm instead.

“How am I going to save lives with a sword?” Bilbo challenged with a raised brow and Thorin's fingers clenched, digging into soft flesh.

“And how are you going to save anyone when you lose your pretty head, halfling,” Thorin hissed and Bilbo's eyes widened, breath hitching. Thorin sucked down air that tasted of smoke and death, and forced himself to uncurl his fingers a bit without giving enough room to let Bilbo slip away. “Are you a fool, that you would brave the battlefield without a blade to defend yourself?”

Bilbo straightened and pulled back as far as Thorin's hand would allow, chin tilting upward. “I've managed so far, thank you!”

“You should thank Mahal, and yet you tempt him so,” Thorin ground out, and his hand slid down Bilbo's arm, cupping an elbow as his voice dropped. “You want to help, I know that, but you won't be able to tend to our wounds if you're busy with your own.”

Bilbo's features softened then, and he raised a hand to grip Thorin's shoulder, thumb smoothing over one of the braids that rested there. “I--”

“THORIN!”

Thorin twisted them around, putting himself between Bilbo and oncoming danger, shield and Deathless at the ready for whatever threat Dwalin had tried to warn them against.

And yet there was no orc coming their way with raised weapons, no group of goblins scrambling over the dead and wounded at their feet to claw at them. There was Dwalin running towards them, something big and heavy thrown across his shoulders, Dáin and two of his men at his back blocking a group of orcs from advancing.

Thorin took a step forward, but Bilbo gasped, his hand spasming around Thorin's upper arm, and he opened his mouth to ask what was going on--

Words died on his lips and the ground fell out beneath his feet. Braids dangled from Dwalin's shoulder, painted orange by the firelight, so bright against the darkness all around them.

“Frerin,” Thorin said and then no more.

His screams knew neither words nor sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's got you so distracted, Master Baggins?
> 
> Frerin sings [When the Hammer falls by Clamavi De Profundis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xm96Cqu4Ils). Check them out, they have lots of Tolkien's poems and songs on their channel, one of my favourites being their version of the [Song of Durin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uxfoa23skHg), from which I took the title and chapter titles of this lil' fic o' mine.
> 
> Herb lore in this chapter (for the witches among you):  
[Golden root](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rhodiola_rosea) grows in cold climates and is a very hardy flower. It was consumed by vikings and several other cultures even to this day, for endurance.  
[Arnica](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arnica) is a plant used topically against many ailments, including sore muscles, bruising, sprains, inflammation and joint pain. It's a very useful plant and smells pine- and sage-like. Just like belladonna, arnica is sometimes called _wolfsbane_.


	3. darkness dwells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All we can do now is wait."

Useless. _Useless!_

Frerin was.

Pale.

Blood.

So much blood. More than any one body could afford to lose. Red. Like finest rubies. Drip drip dripping. Spilling. Over the cot. Into rough linen.

Useless Thorin. Couldn't protect him. So useless.

A scream, gathering in his chest and tickling in his throat, but all he could do was whisper. No. No no no. No, brother, no.

Frerin's eyes. Glassy. Unseeing.

His breath, laboured. Wheezing from his lungs, a sound like punctured bellows.

Hands, slick with sweat. No, red. Thorin's trembling hands, grasping and sliding against wet, sticky flesh.

Brother, don't.

Thorin.

He should have been there. Should have, should have, should have, should have! His fault, all this. This red. His, only his, his fault. Frerin's blood on his hands, in every way. If he had. If he. He should have. His. All his.

Thorin!

If he had. If he had been there. He could have. Have stopped. This. This red, this blood, Mahal so much blood, his brother his brother his brother, Frerin, brother don't don't

“_Thorin!_”

The slap whipped his head to the side, pain immediate and harsh. His ears rang. Tears shot into his eyes and blurred his vision. Thorin blinked, sucked down a breath. The copper tang of blood filled his mouth and he probed the inside of his stinging cheek with his tongue. Winced when it found the cut. Reality returned to him, concious thought tore at the heavy shroud that had spread like miasma over his mind. His surroundings gained shape, the off-white tent walls around him swimming into focus, the sound of running and clanking armour and shouted orders filtering through the fabric from the outside. Inside the tent, however, there was startled stillness, only broken by Frerin's rattling breath.

“Thorin.” His name, turned into the sound the hammer made when it struck the anvil. Sharp, loud, unforgiving. Thorin finally turned towards Bilbo and watched his hand drop back to his side, fingers twitching. Bilbo's chest heaved with his breathing and his eyes were dark and narrowed beneath his drawn brows. He held Thorin's gaze for a fraction of a heartbeat. Then he nodded.

“Put that between his teeth.” He shoved something at Thorin, who fumbled for a moment, his body unwilling to catch up with the tempo of his reeling mind. Warm leather slid against his hands and he held up the strap while Bilbo's words finally transformed into something he could make sense of. “Now!”

Thorin stumbled around the cot, Dwalin's hand around his upper arm pulling him the rest of the way and helping him kneel as his weight eventually got too much for his legs. His hands shook. Frerin's mouth was slack and his teeth did not clench around the strap, so Thorin held it there, one hand on each end. His gaze roamed Frerin's face, catching on the dark bruises beneath his eyes, obsidian against bone-white skin. Thorin squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the sting in his cheek, pressing the tip of his tongue against the cut on its inside.

“Get to it, halfling,” Dwalin growled above him. “He'll bleed out.”

“Not much sense in stopping the bleeding if he'll die of an infection instead, _dwarf_,” Bilbo shot back and Thorin tore his gaze away from Frerin's pallid face to find Bilbo standing above the wash basin, healer's tunic discarded, tearing at the sleeves of his shirt. A button snapped off and plinked against the side of the basin.

“Where's Óin?” Dwalin ground out. Bilbo didn't turn away from his scrubbing as he answered.

“On his way. And he'll be here before I've done any kind of healing if you don't stop asking questions, and Frerin will be well and truly dead. Bor.”

He held out his hands, rubbed red from the brush's bristles, and the dwarf healer hurried over, pouring a generous amount of clear liquid over Bilbo's hands. Bilbo's face twisted, but he did not pull away and rubbed them together instead, spreading the liquid on any skin that might have been missed.

“Take off the armour.”

Bor hurried to the cot and loosened clasps and buckles with practised ease, revealing the mail shirt. Thorin sucked a breath through his teeth as he saw the mess of iron rings at Frerin's abdomen, bent and broken, a gap as long and broad as a dwarven finger. Red bloomed on the gambeson beneath.

Thorin looked at Dwalin, whose lips twitched as if he was holding back a snarl.

“Azog.” Forced out through clenched teeth.

Bilbo bent over Frerin, shaking moisture from his hands as he held them up and away from his sides and stained clothes. As the mail shirt was pushed up, Frerin twitched and gasped, eyes rolling up. The gambeson was cut open. Blood welled dark and ruby-red from a jagged cut that gaped like a hungry maw with every shallow breath Frerin dragged down.

Thorin's hands clenched around the strap when he felt his fingers slip against the leather.

The wrinkle between Bilbo's brows deepened and his jaw worked. “My tools.”

Bor stood just as the tent flap opened and Óin hurried through, not bothering with greetings while he bent over the cot and inspected the wound. He clicked his tongue.

“Bless yer maker fer giving ye small hands,” he said and Bilbo shook his head.

“I'll still need to widen the cut.”

Óin hummed and nodded, then crooked his fingers. “More light.”

Three brown-clad dwarves hurried into the tent and bustled around it, hanging lanterns from the poles and adjusting their silver screens so the light would reflect onto Frerin. Óin went to wash his hands and Bor approached Bilbo with a tray, thongs, a needle and threat, and a peculiar knife on it. Its blade was short and thin, only sharpened on one side, and the handle long. Bilbo's fingers closed around it.

“Widen the cut,” Thorin repeated, his voice hollow and foreign. Bilbo's gaze flicked towards Thorin before returning to the cut, the hand with the blade hesitating for barely a moment before it resumed its way, lowering towards skin. Óin's head snapped into his direction, and his eyes narrowed.

“Dwalin,” he said without looking away from Thorin and then cocked his head at the tent flap. “No need fer him to watch.”

“What?” Thorin demanded, pushing himself up and leaning in over Frerin. “_Watch what_?!”

“Out!” Óin barked.

Frerin groaned, a breathy sound, and his body shuddered, arms twitching.

“Hold him down!” Bilbo said and the healers descended upon Frerin, hands pushing down on him, and Thorin felt himself being pulled to his feet by hands beneath his armpits. He stumbled back against Dwalin's front and his own hands came up to claw at the arm wrapping around his chest, pulling him towards the exit.

“No,” he said. “No!”

Dwalin said nothing as he fought, only dragging him farther away from the cot and Frerin. Thorin snarled and shouted, but Dwalin's arm was a vice, his other hand gripping Thorin's chin roughly and pushing it up, fingertips pressing painfully into Thorin's cheeks.

Through wide eyes, Thorin watched Bilbo's fingertips vanish between the edges of the wound.

The tent flap fell shut between them.

Thorin waited. Dwalin had dragged him to the closest fire and dropped him beside it, sitting down next to him, his hand feeling like it weighed as much as the mountains as it settled on Thorin's shoulder and stayed there. Dwalin had flagged down a passing soldier and given gruff orders Thorin hadn't bothered to listen to. The soldier hurried off.

Thorin stared at the tent as dawn painted it orange-red.

He did not know how long he'd waited when Thráin came, Balin hot on his heels, and strode right towards the tent and shoved the flap aside. He had not yet set foot inside when shouting broke out. Thorin stiffened and Dwalin's hand curled tight around his shoulder, fingers digging into muscle and collar bone.

Balin stepped between Thráin and the tent, both hands on his shoulders as he talked quickly and insistently. Eventually, Thráin shook off his touch, but took a step back and turned around, rubbing a hand over his face. His shoulders slumped and his head bent. He looked old, then. Older than Thorin had ever seen him, ready enough to buckle beneath the weight of his years.

“Father.” Thorin's voice was rough, rubbed raw like it had been dragged across jagged stone. He swallowed against the lump in his throat. Thráin's head snapped up and his shoulders straightened. His steps were stiff as he passed the short distance between them until he stood no more than a foot's length away.

He looked at Thorin. And said nothing.

Moments passed. Or hours. Or years.

Thorin felt his father's gaze push down on him like a heavy weight. Like all the stone that made up the triple peaks behind him.

He looked away.

“Balin,” Thráin said. “Send for me as soon as you have word from Óin.”

“Of course,” Balin said softly, and Thráin left.

Thorin propped his arms up on his knees and buried his head in his hands. He did not look up when Balin sat down beside him, shoulder knocking into his, and for long moments they sat without speaking.

The fire crackled, and a log popped and shifted as the flames ate away at it. The heat was lost on Thorin. Cold had settled in his stomach and spread to his bones, leaving him shivering. Balin shifted at his side, and another log was added to feed the fire.

“Óin will do what he can,” Balin said. “And if it is not enough, the Stone will welcome Frerin so he may rest.”

“The halfling,” Dwalin began, but Balin was quicker, his voice sharp.

“Is a healer of tremendous skill, they say. And he will also do what he can.” His words were muffled and accompanied by the smell of pipe-weed as he continued, “don't let your distaste of elves cloud your opinion of the hobbit, brother. Mahal knows I hold no love for the green-eaters, but he also knows Elrond's skill in healing is not matched by any one soul in this world. If Master Baggins has only half his talent, I think dear Frerin is in good hands.”

Dwalin harrumphed, but said nothing.

Thorin felt something nudge his hand, and when he raised his head, Balin was holding his pipe out to him. His smile was warm, yet brittle. Thorin looked at him, then took the pipe. He inhaled deeply, hoping the smoke might calm him a bit. But the smell was a bit too sharp, the smoke a bit too rough as he dragged it down into his lungs. He coughed.

“All we can do now is wait,” Balin said.

Thorin looked at the tent.

They waited.

Óin poked his head out of the tent and crooked a finger at them. Thorin was pushing past him before he'd even realised he'd gotten to his feet.

“Slow down,” Óin said and grabbed Thorin's arm. Thorin looked down and saw red around his nails. Óin let go and wiped his hands on a rag. “Don't ye wake them. They need rest, not some royal arse blundering 'round the tent like a mûmak.”

“How is he?” Thorin asked and Óin sighed.

“Yer brother's fine, fer now. Master Baggins,” he stressed with a raised brow, “has stopped the bleeding and stitched the wounds. The rest is in Mahal's hands.”

Thorin sagged with relief and steadied himself with a hand on Óin's arm. He took a deep breath and swallowed. Another breath before he trusted himself to speak.

“Thank you.”

Óin waved him off. “Aye, ye're welcome. Don't forget to thank the halfling.” He leaned in, making sure Thorin met his gaze before he added, “after he's gotten some sleep.”

Thorin nodded and squeezed Óin's arm before stepping into the tent. The sight of his brother brought him up short, rooting him to the spot as if his feet had turned to stone without his noticing. There lay Frerin on his cot in the middle of the room, wrapped in clean linen and thick pelts pulled up to his chest. His braids were dark and tangled around his pallid face, their usual golden colour dulled by dirt and darkened with moisture.

Thorin stepped closer, the wood frame of the cot brushing against his thigh, one hand reaching out to the bear pelt over his abdomen, right where he knew the wound to be beneath the layers. Coarse fur tickled the tips of his fingers and he pulled his hand back, cradling it against his chest, gaze flicking up towards Frerin’s face, grey and lined. His sleep was restless, brows and mouth twitching with the smallest of movements, eyelids trembling.

“Your highness,” someone rumbled, and Thorin started, looking at the healer that had appeared at his side, holding a chair and putting it down next to Frerin’s cot. Thorin nodded his thanks and the dwarf smiled, bowing his head slightly. It was Bor, whom Óin had likened to a butcher, at least when it came to sewing wounds shut. Thorin looked at Bor’s hands wrapped around the chair’s backrest and could find no fault in them. They were good, dwarven hands, thick-fingered and large. Thorin thought about these hands holding one of the delicate curved healers’ needles, and smiled.

It slipped quickly off his face when Frerin’s breath hitched in his sleep.

Thorin sat heavily, gaze returning to his brother’s face, glad for every movement and the life it still held, and yet--

One of Bor’s hands cupped Frerin’s forehead, resting there for a moment. “Bit o’ a fever,” he told Thorin under his breath, “which ’s to be expected, really. The body doesn’ like this kind o' treatment.”

“Which kind of treatment?” Thorin asked, words clipped, and Bor turned towards him, smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“Bein’ stabbed, o’ course,” he said and straightened his bent back, pulling his hand back and wiping it on his tunic absentmindedly. “Your highness,” he tacked onto the end of his sentence. Thorin looked at him and wondered if cheek was a requirement for healers, or if it came with the profession. Or maybe Bilbo was simply rubbing off on his assistants, introducing a bit of Shire impertinence to the dwarven ways. Then again, Óin especially only kept to those dwarven ways when it suited him.

“Where’s the hobbit?” Thorin asked, noting Bor release a breath he’d obviously been holding for some time.

“O'er there,” he said and cocked his head at the other side of the cot.

Thorin had to lean in over Frerin, conscious not to jostle him, to catch a glimpse of tousled curls behind the pile of furs. Bilbo sat on the ground against a tent pole, curled in on himself, arms crossed over bent knees, forehead pillowed on his forearms. His back rose and lowered with deep and steady breaths. His hands were clean, but a trickle of brownish-red had run down the side of his forearm towards the cuffs at his elbow, seeping into the fine fabric. Dark handprints were smudged against the sides of his shirt and britches.

“I be right outside the tent, your majesty,” Bor said then and grinned. “‘S no’ that you don’ have the best healer o’ the camp right here, mind. But I think he needs his rest, aye?”

He bowed deeply and stepped outside. Thorin looked at the swaying tent flap until it stilled. Then he stood. As he stepped around the cot, he slipped his coat from his shoulders and then crouched down next to Bilbo, keeping his movements slow so as not to wake him. There was no fire in the tent, and most of the lanterns had been put out to allow for easier rest. When he brushed his knuckles against Bilbo’s fingers, they were cold.

Thorin wrapped his coat around Bilbo’s shoulders, tugging on it until most of the small hobbit’s form was covered, only his curly mop of hair peeking out from the furred collar. He smoothed a hand along the pelt, hesitating when his fingers reached the tips of bright curls. He pinched a strand between thumb and forefinger and let it slide against his skin, surprised that it was not as soft as he’d expected.

Bilbo hummed then, and shifted. His head lifted from his arms with great effort and he sniffed, nose twitching. He blinked a couple of times as he looked at Thorin. Then his lips tugged into a drowsy smile, a soft and warm thing.

“Thorin,” he said, voice husky with sleep. Thorin nodded and wrapped a hand around Bilbo’s nape, thumb brushing over the soft patch of skin behind one pointed ear. Bilbo shivered, fingers curling around the furred seam of the coat, eyes half-lidded. Thorin tore his gaze away and let go of Bilbo’s nape, hand settling lower instead, between Bilbo’s shoulder blades. He looked at Frerin.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and caught Bilbo waving his words away from the corner of his eye.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said, words slurred. “Could infect,” he clarified when Thorin looked at him. Thorin nodded and caught himself rubbing circles into Bilbo’s back with his thumb. He did not stop.

“I’ll thank you later, then,” Thorin said, and Bilbo smiled once more, resting his head on his forearms, face turned towards Thorin. “Sleep now.”

Bilbo hummed, eyes falling shut, and Thorin bent low, pressing his forehead to Bilbo’s temple for a moment and breathing in the smell of herbs and sweat, and blood.

Then he pulled away and stood, knees popping, steps stiff as he returned to the chair and sat.

Thorin leaned back in his seat, shifting until he got as comfortable as he might, and reached out to comb a hand through Frerin’s braids, listening to Bilbo’s even breathing. It was calming, in a way, and soon enough his lids grew heavier, and his movements slower, until Thorin’s head sank back against the chair.

He slept.

Thorin woke to warmth and quiet humming.

It was no melody he knew, nothing like the deep rumble of a dwarven song, but a light and soft tune. Like mist rising above fields, Thorin’s mind offered, curling and weaving around him. Like the whisper of the wind between the leaves.

His hand twitched and he felt soft fur against its back. Something warm and heavy had spread over him, and when he cracked one eye open, he found his own coat had been tucked around his shoulders. A splash made him look up, and there was Bilbo, humming softly, as he wet a cloth and then wrung it out. For a moment, Thorin watched him as he bent over Frerin, dragging the cloth over his skin, wiping away dirt and sweat and blood. Steam curled from the water bowl next to Bilbo, and Thorin smelled something sweet and flowery.

“Si barthannen Tinúviel,” Bilbo sang softly and carded wet fingers through Frerin’s braids to loosen the tangles and knots.

Thorin cleared his throat and Bilbo looked up, smiling, but continued singing. He wrapped the cloth around the braids and wiped them down, squeezing moisture from them when he was finished.

Thorin pushed the coat from his shoulders into his lap and leaned in, propping his arms on his knees and resting his chin on one palm. “Are you serenading my brother, Master Hobbit?”

Bilbo laughed and shook his head softly. “Eru preserve me. Imagine what they would say in the Shire.” He pitched his voice higher, giving it the pesky edge of a busy-body. “Look at Mad Baggins, there he goes again. Singing to a dwarf as if he’s courting him. Well, I never!”

He laughed again, but there was a bit of red on his cheeks now as he ducked his head and peered at Thorin from the corners of his eyes. Then he bit his lip and grabbed another braid to clean it. “And I imagine singing in Sindarin would be lost on dwarfs as well, seeing as you don’t seem to have any love for the fair folk.”

Thorin grinned and cocked his head to the side. “True.” He gestured at Bilbo’s hands then. “But if you mean to court my brother, you’re not faring badly. Touching hair is a clear sign of intent, where dwarfs are concerned.” There was a flutter in Thorin’s chest, and he curled his hand into a fist on his thigh, then uncurled it again, stretching his fingers.

“It is?” Bilbo said, gaze dropping to the braid woven from the strands behind Thorin’s left ear and falling over his shoulder. Bilbo raised a hand to his own hair, tugging on a curl and sliding it between his fingertips.

“Hair is important to us dwarfs. Only meant to be touched by family. Or lovers.”

Bilbo nodded. “I will remember this so I do not cause a misunderstanding.”

“You should,” Thorin said and held his gaze, smiling. “So you do not return home married to a dwarf by accident. Imagine the outrage.”

“Then I shall do it on purpose,” Bilbo said. “And take great pleasure from watching them faint. ‘Don’t turn out like Mad Baggins,’ they’ll tell the fauntlings, ‘who ran off with a wizard to live with the elves and came back with a dwarf! Poor Bungo must be rolling in his grave, he must!’” He chuckled and stood, taking the bowl of fragrant water with him to put it down on the table, his back to Thorin. “Shows me they did not care to know my father well. He would not have cared if I’d married a troll, if only I loved him.” His voice was quieter now. It sounded still amused, but there was a sadness to the slope of his shoulders while he washed his hands. “He was awfully romantic,” he said.

Thorin thought of his own mother, and her many books lining the walls of her room in Erebor. Of the stories she had told them when she had tucked them in for the night, of heroes and quests, and always of love strong and undying like the stone. He would have liked to lay her to rest with her favourite tale, but Smaug had taken that from them, too.

“And what would he have thought of you living with the elves?” Thorin asked, gaze resting on Bilbo’s shoulders. And so he caught them stiffen for a heartbeat before Bilbo relaxed again, turning his head to the side to peer at Thorin over his shoulder.

“You fancy yourself shrewd, don’t you, Thorin son of Thráin?”

Thorin spread his hands and shrugged. “I’ve been told my talents lie elsewhere, but I do try to learn.”

Bilbo turned around, settling against the table, crossing his arms over his chest and pushing his hands underneath his armpits. He hummed and looked at Frerin with the tiniest of smiles. “He would not have liked to see me leave the Shire. But my mother would have talked him into accepting it. She would have thought it great. My very own adventure!” His thumb rubbed circles against his shoulder, and he tipped his head back slightly, looking at the ceiling of the tent. Or maybe past it, towards the sky it hid. “She used to tell me of the world beyond the Shire. According to her, it’s far easier to appreciate its simple comforts once you’ve missed them.”

“And was she right?”

Bilbo looked at him, shoulders twitching with a small shrug. “I haven’t been back yet,” he said and turned again to the table, busying himself with the various tubs and bowls there, picking them up one after the other and sniffing their contents. “But I think I can see what she meant. I do sometimes catch myself missing the other four meals of the day.”

He laughed at Thorin’s wide-eyed look, and picked up a tub of ointment and some bandages. He walked around the cot and came to stand at the height of Frerin’s hips.

“Hobbits do like to indulge,” he said and pushed the covers aside, baring Frerin’s abdomen and tugging on the bandages until they came loose. “Which does not mean that we aren’t hard workers,” he continued while he unwrapped the strips of cotton, “we will spend hours gardening and farming and cooking and baking. We don’t do anything halfhearted, eating included.”

Thorin nodded, gaze locked on the wound as it was finally revealed. The cut was red and angry against Frerin’s skin, reaching from below his navel almost all the way to his left hip. A neat row of stitches held it closed, and scab had formed along it. Bilbo sucked at his teeth, fingers skirting the flesh around the wound, feeling and prodding.

“And healing, it appears,” Thorin said and Bilbo shot him a glance. He nodded and unscrewed the tub, scooping thick ointment onto his hands, spreading it carefully across the wound. Thorin could smell the paste, pungent and with a hint of spices. “Are there many healers in the Shire?”

“Yavanna, no!” Bilbo chuckled to himself. “All hobbits know plants and their uses, however, there’s not much to heal, apart from the occasional sniffle and scraped knees. It’s peaceful land.”

“And yet you’re here.”

Bilbo hesitated and looked up, his gaze roaming Thorin’s face until it settled on his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “And yet I’m here.”

Thorin leaned in and reached out his hand, settling it onto Bilbo’s forearm, above his wrist. “I am glad.”

Bilbo looked at Thorin’s hand, large enough to cover almost all of his arm up to his elbow, and he swallowed.

“Then you should thank Gandalf,” he said after a moment and shook his head. “He whisked me away from Rivendell with the promise to bring me to Lothlórien. The meddling old coot.”

“Such is his wont, I hear,” Thorin said and pulled back, dragging his fingertips over the dry skin of Bilbo’s knuckles. One side of his mouth pulled up into a smirk. “And I can’t fault him for it, this time.”

Bilbo breathed out a laugh, their gazes meeting across Frerin’s sleeping form, and holding for long moments. Thorin thought he should feel guilty, perhaps, with his brother lying between them, wounded and having been dragged away from death’s door. But he couldn’t find it in himself as he looked at Bilbo and felt warmth spread from his chest to his fingertips and toes, filling his body until he thought he might burst.

As if he had heard his thoughts, Bilbo turned to look at Frerin’s face, his smile broad and mischievous.

“Oh,” Bilbo said, endlessly amused, “he will be so cross with us when he finds out he was in the room when I told you all this, and wasn’t awake to hear!”

Thorin laughed, and the world felt a bit brighter. Just for a moment.

Thrór’s armour had been polished until it shone. The firelight danced golden and orange and red across the shined iron plating, much like it, too, had been set alight. The mighty grey beard had been combed and braided, and his hair brushed away from his face, held back by a single thick braid, the beads of Durin’s line woven into the strands. His crown sat atop his brow, a heavy ring of gold and iron, seven spikes protruding from it, the one in the middle of his forehead the thickest.

He cut an imposing, regal figure. To Thorin it was like looking back at a time before the dragon, and the sickness, when Thrór sat on his throne in Erebor and ruled it with well-earned confidence, and fairness.

Thorin tore his gaze away from his grandfather and turned towards Khazad-dûm. Behind him, orders were shouted and soldiers fell in formation, boots loud on stone, armour clunking. There was a sense of anticipation, a hunger for revenge. So many had already been lost, and now Frerin, well-loved prince of Durin’s line, lay wounded and sleeping. It was an affront beyond measure, setting ablaze the forges that sat in dwarven hearts, and they had sharpened their blades, and polished their armour, and beat the dents from their shields.

The sun was setting behind the triple peaks, and Khazad-dûm’s gates were open, waiting for them to breach through and return to the halls Durin himself had carved into the mountains. Waiting for them to come home and dispel the stink of orc and bring splendour again upon Moria.

Thrór cupped his hands around his mouth, and his voice rang across the valley:

“Azog!” he called.

The wind picked up. Fingers of ice dragged through Thorin’s hair and he shivered. The sun set.

“Azog!” Thrór called forth his doom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Si barthannen Tinúviel - (Sindarin) And doom fell on Tinúviel  
Bilbo sings [the Song of Beren and Lúthien](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=11_aneHVaz8)
> 
> I'm too old and too soft to write long angst. :<
> 
> Herb lore in this chapter:  
[Moringa](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moringa_oleifera) against Frerin's fever. It smells very pleasant and flowery.  
[Calendula](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calendula), [goldenrod](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Solidago) and [yarrow](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Achillea_millefolium) are traditionally used for wound healing and to treat inflammation. While yarrow smells like a blend of herbs such as rosemary and oregano, calendula and goldenrod smell really not that nice. A bit cheesy and rotten even.


	4. on carven throne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long live the king.

Sweat stung Thorin’s eyes. His left arm shook with exhaustion, but his fingers clamped around the oak branch like a vice, unable to let go even as more of his strength seeped from his body with every breath that burned a way down to his lungs. His knee throbbed.

At Thorin’s feet, Azog’s pale eyes stared up at him. His mouth was slack, gaping, his eyes wide.

Death had caught his last surprised expression, and held it there, frozen on his face. Until the rats and crows and maggots would come and tear it away.

The sword slipped from his grasp and clattered to the ground when Thorin bent down and reached out. Azog had no hair, and Thorin’s fingers spread wide around the dome of his scalp as they sought purchase. The head was heavy, the weight of three mountains and hundreds of lost dwarven lives pulling down Thorin’s arm. He straightened slowly, and even though there was still fighting around him, its sound was dulled, as if filtered through cotton stuck in his ears.

His fingers strained as he raised his hand and balanced the head on his palm. His arm trembled.

His voice carried. 

“Yanâd Durinul!” Thorin roared and it was the spark that set the kindling alight, that jumped forth and brought life to many more voices, and the call travelled further away from him, in every direction. It rolled across the battlefield and crashed against the gates and the side of the mountains.

Thorin pulled his arm back, and pushed it forth, and the head slipped from his hold, flew in an arc over orcs and dwarves, and vanished between filthy bodies and gleaming armour.

“Ai-rusê! Khazâd ai-menû!” Thorin cried and cheers rang out, and the mass of bodies moved. Towards Khazad-dûm, orcs stumbling over one another in their haste to get away, dwarves at their heels, shouting, their weapons singing as they cut through air and into flesh. Black blood wet stone and iron, and victory had finally arrived. But not before claiming its price.

The sun rose behind them, and sent its warmth and light upon a home reclaimed.

The inside of the tent lay in half-darkness, only a ring of candles lit around the single cot at the centre of the space. The tent walls were dyed dark blue, and did not let the sun’s light through.

Thorin stopped only a step away from the entrance, watching the healers move. They did so slowly, because there was no hurry with this task, no wounds weeping blood and needing stitches, no broken bones that wanted to be set.

For Thrór was beyond help now.

These were his last rites, given to him in solemn silence by careful hands. Dirt was washed from his skin and combed from his hair, before it was weaved into braids clasped with onyx-set beads. Only half a day had passed, but already the stink of death was there, mixed with the smell of resin and fragrant oils not strong enough to overpower it.

Someone brushed past him, coming from outside, and Thorin moved with effort to a shadowed corner. There he sank onto a chair, the softness of the sheep pelt spread across it lost on him. His limbs felt heavy, his eyelids even more so, and yet he kept them open. And watched.

One of the healers raising his head caught his attention. He recognized Bor, and the healer held his gaze and dipped his chin, lips pressed to a thin line between the short bristles of earth-brown beard. His eyes were rimmed with red, and Thorin wondered if he’d cut his beard for their king, or if it had been for someone else that lay dead now. Another body, cold and stiff like the stone it was to be returned to. Another soul that had been paid for the night’s outcome.

He’d slumped in his seat, he realised when Balin brushed the tent flap aside and stepped into the tent, and Thorin straightened.

Balin stood there for a moment, gaze on the king and eyes hollow, corners of his mouth twisted towards the ground. Then his chest rose as he breathed deeply, and rubbed at his eyes.

Thorin opened his mouth to call out to him, but nothing came out. He needn’t have bothered anyway, because Balin turned towards his dark corner as if he’d expected him there. Quick steps took him across the space between them, and then he stood before Thorin, brows drawn, eyes bright even in the half-light.

Thorin knew the answer before he’d even asked his question. 

“My father?” He was startled by his own voice, sounding like it had been broken from rock and wrenched from the depths of his chest.

Balin shook his head. “We haven’t found him yet.”

Thorin nodded. His gaze was dragged back to the form on the cot, like metal to a lodestone. The healers were dressing his grandfather, hiding bruises and bloodless cuts beneath thick fabric lined with golden thread.

“Dáin?”

Balin huffed out a breath, his voice tinged with warm amusement despite everything, “As well as his situation allows. I caught him in a shouting match with the halfling before I came here. Apparently Dáin doesn’t trust him not to use some kind of elven-magic on him, much to Master Baggin’s rather loudly voiced irritation.”

Thorin did not laugh, but felt his mouth twitch as some of the pressure around his chest loosened. At least his cousin was alive and well enough to be his usual loud self. And so was Bilbo.

“Any words from Frerin?”

“Still asleep, but faring well, according to Óin,” Balin said. At this, Thorin let himself sink deeper into the chair, his gaze dropping to his hands on his lap.

“Good,” he breathed. “That’s good.”

His eyelids grew heavier then and his vision blurred, sleep threatening to pull him under. But a hand clasping his shoulder and squeezing made him blink his eyes open again, and Thorin looked up at Balin, something heavy and regretful to the twist of his mouth.

“I will wait for you outside,” Balin said, each word pronounced with utmost care, “my prince.”

Thorin nodded, the hand sliding from his shoulder and taking its warmth with it. He watched Balin step out of the tent and then looked again at his grandfather.

The king is dead, he thought, long live the king.

Wherever he may be.

Night fell. The fires were lit.

Thorin stood, the tent flap bunched in his hand, the cool night air tugging on his hair, the smell of smoke riding it.

The barricade around the gates was crude and makeshift: tree trunks stripped of the branches and held together by thick rope, discarded shields and dented armour filling the gaps between the wood. Soldiers sat in the barricade's shelter, resting against its side, weapons across their laps or lying within reach at their sides. They had lit smaller fires for warmth and light, and the wind carried snippets of conversation and song across the valley.

There was no sound coming from the gates, no war drums pounding a foreboding rhythm, no shrieks and squeals and corruption-dripping black speech. For the first time since they had arrived here, Khazad-dûm lay silent and still, waiting.

Thorin knew he should sleep, but he could not. Restless energy kept him awake though he was teetering on the brink of exhaustion, a long drop before him. His body begged for rest with limbs that weighed a tonne each, and eyes that struggled to open again after every blink. Yet his mind was full of reeling thoughts that did not let him sleep whenever he lay down and closed his eyes. In the darkness behind his closed eyelids, his mind wandered, and he thought of the gates, open and beckoning for Durin’s sons. He thought of the dead. Of Thrór and the neat row of sutures that now lay hidden behind a high collar. 

He thought of Thráin, whom they had not yet found between the dead, and saw him dragged into darkness by dirty paws. Saw him wandering lightless tunnels, unaware of the drop before him.

He thought of Frerin, still asleep, and Thorin’s mind turned his cheeks hollow, his eyes sunken in their sockets, his skin bone-white as the wound in his abdomen festered red and black, and the corruption ate him from the inside.

Thorin shivered, and his hand curled tightly around the tent flap. The darkness in his tent brought darker thoughts even, that could not be displayed by the flickering candle light. Thorin looked at the valley, the wind caressing his cheeks with cold fingertips, and thought a walk might clear his head.

He did not decide to seek out the healers’ tents, but his feet carried him there anyway. As he passed the war camp, soldiers called out to him, inviting him to share their fire and ale, and take part in the celebrations, subdued as they might be by tiredness and mourning. Thorin thanked them, but kept walking.

The light of the great fires in the valley did not reach the healers’ tents, and Mirrormere was a black looking glass speckled with white stars. Most of the tents lay in darkness, but some were lit from within, dark figures dancing on their walls like in the men’s shadow plays.

Óin’s tent was silent and dimly-lit. All but Frerin’s cot were unoccupied, and Óin sat in a chair beside him beneath a lantern, humming softly to himself as he read the book open in his lap, a thick forefinger dragging along neat lines of writing and showing his progress along the page. A stick of sweet-wood stuck out from his mouth, twitching as he chewed.

Thorin cleared his throat, but Óin did not look up from his reading.

“Shouldnae ye be resting?” he said, sweet-wood clamped between his teeth.

“Yes,” Thorin said.

Óin stopped reading then, marking his page with a strip of cotton, and sighed deeply as he looked at Thorin. Then he heaved himself from his chair, dropping the book on its seat, and walked towards a table piled high with dried herbs. He murmured to himself while he sorted through them, gathering a handful of different flowers and roots.

Meanwhile, Thorin had sat down on the cot next to Frerin’s, resting his elbows on his thighs and leaning in to watch his brother in his sleep.

Some colour had returned to Frerin’s cheeks, and the bruises beneath his eyes had lightened. His lips were parted, and his breathing was deep and slow. Thorin reached out and wrapped his fingers around a braid at Frerin’s temple, feeling the woven strands slide against his fingertips.

A mug was thrust into his line of vision, steam curling above it. “Drink.”

Thorin closed his fingers around it, breathing in the smell of chamomile and lavender, and something else earthy. Warmth seeped from the clay into his hand.

“Tea?” he asked and cocked one brow.

Óin snorted. “What else did ye expect? Poppy milk fer a bit of sleep troubles?” He clicked his tongue. “Ye should be happy I dinnae simply clobber ye to sleep, yer highness. Now drink up and lie down. I did mean to get some reading done before yer brother wakes and inevitably causes a stir ‘round here.”

“So he will wake soon?” Thorin rubbed at his chest, over the flutter beneath his ribs.

Óin sat down in his chair again, flipping the book open and paging through it until he’d found where he’d left up. “Aye, the fever is gone. Right now he’s only being lazy, sleeping while the rest of us works.” He harrumphed to show exactly what he thought of this kind of behaviour, and then dug through his pocket. The stick of sweet-wood returned to its former place, Óin resumed his reading.

Thorin sipped his tea and listened to the pages turn, and Óin’s occasional hums and haws. Frerin’s breathing stayed calm and deep, and Thorin felt his eyelids droop, the tea’s warmth spreading from his stomach throughout the rest of his body. He put the mug down on the ground and stretched out on his side on the cot, pillowing his head on his arm, and slept.

Thorin rubbed at his temples and breathed out a sigh. Next to him, Balin shifted in his seat and cast him a glance, lips a thin line of disapproval at this obvious display of Thorin’s feelings. He had, after all, taught him better. Thorin only raised a brow and leaned back in his chair, gesturing at the others around the table, who were, for the fourth time that day, engaged in a shouting match.

There was Náin, leaning over the table, face as red as his beard while he attempted to shout down the Broadbeams’ envoy, a dwarf by the name of Sigur with a beard as long as himself. Sigur was giving as good as he got, clenching his beard in both of his fists and tugging on it as he tried to yell over Náin’s threats of evisceration.

The scribe in the corner had long since given up documenting the exchange and was now gaping at them, fingers stuffed into his ears.

Balin shot Thorin a long-suffering look, which Thorin ignored, and then cleared his throat with a grimace.

“Lord Náin, my Lord Sigur,” he said, just as Náin gripped the edge of the table and pulled to flip it. Sigur did not agree with this plan, and grabbed the other side, and between them, the table was lifted, tankards sliding from side to side and sloshing their contents over maps and parchment. “Please!” Balin said, louder now.

He might as well have tried shouting down a storm, and finally, Thorin took pity. He shot to his feet, his chair overbalancing and clattering to the ground, and roared at the top of his lungs.

“Itkitî!”

The table’s wood trembled under his fist when he pounded it down on it, and both Náin and Sigur let go, dropping the table with a bang. Most tankards clattered and fell over, only one landing again upright after it had jumped an inch off the table. Thorin put his hands down on the surface, ignoring the ale beneath his palms, and leaned in.

“Stop your squabbling,” Thorin spat. “Save your energy for the orcs.” His eyes caught Gandalf’s across the tent, were the wizard sat puffing his pipe in a corner, his mouth curved with his amusement over the display. Thorin felt heat in his cheeks, and rising up his neck, and he furrowed his brows, turning back to the others around the table. “Or whatever else awaits us once we enter Khazad-dûm.”

“Fine,” Sigur said and threw himself back into his chair, brushing hands over his beard to straighten it. “And when will that be?”

Thorin bit back a snarl and regretted for a moment that he’d not let Náin come true on his threats. Balin’s shoulder brushing against his elbow did not do much to quell the flames of his anger and irritation.

“The pale orc is dead, and the night has been quiet. No orcs have come,” Sigur continued, still stroking his beard. “And yet you haven’t given the order to breach the gates, _ prince _ Thorin.”

He drawled Thorin’s title with narrowed eyes and lips curved into not-quite a smirk.

“Watch it,” Náin growled. One of his hands wrapped around the knife at his belt.

Sigur sneered at him, and tugged at his braided mustache. “We came when the Longbeards called for our aid,” he said. “All of us,” and here he waved a hand at the other envoys of the Firebeards and the Ironfists, the Blacklocks, Stonefoots, and Stiffbeards, who nodded and grunted their approval of his words, “came and offered our help to King Thrór, may he rest with the Stone, and we lost many good dwarfs for nothing to show. Thrór is dead, and Thráin cannot be found. And now we must suffer insult and threats from the Longbeards! We were promised mithril!”

Náin sucked in a breath, already working himself up into another bout of shouting, and Balin stood quickly, hands spread.

“Of course, Lord Sigur. Of course,” he said. “Forgive us, we have suffered a great loss, you understand.”

“So have we,” Sigur said, but Balin furrowed his brows and Sigur deflated slightly, slumping in his seat.

“Yes,” Balin said. “Truly, we have all suffered losses. And they shall not be in vain. That is why we must be careful. We do not know what awaits us in Khazad-dûm. The orcs are safe in its darkness, and they might plan to ambush us once we breach the gates. A frontal attack is not prudent.”

“So what do you propose, Master Balin?” the Blacklock envoy spoke up, and rested her chin on her folded hands.

Balin smiled at her and reached into his coat. “I was hoping you might ask, Lady Gun.” He produced a scroll of parchment and unrolled it, making to put it down on the table, and frowned when he remembered it was covered in ale and sodden parchment. He rolled the scroll up again and cleared his throat.

“Sadly, there is no dwarf alive still that has had the honour of walking Khazad-dûm’s halls. All we have left is texts and maps like this one here, to tell us of side entrances.”

Gun narrowed her eyes. “So we might sneak in as if we were beardless.” She tugged on the thick braid at her chin as if to make sure it was still there and had not fallen off at such a proposal.

Murmuring rose around the table. Thorin straightened and glowered at Sigur, whose mouth was working the hardest. Balin silenced them all with a raised hand.

“Of course not,” he said sharply. “We will send scouts before we decide on our next move. Each of us picks two of their best and, shall we say, most discreet. We will use the rest of the day to prepare and allow all of us to get some rest during the night. In the morrow, we will send the scouts into Khazad-dûm.”

Again, murmuring broke out, this time mostly tinged with approval. Even Sigur was nodding, his adjutant whispering in his ear.

Gandalf cleared his throat. A small noise, yet it was as efficient as the toll of Durin’s bell. The heads around the table turned towards his corner, and Thorin kicked his chair upright, sitting down and crossing his arms over his chest.

“A fine choice of words, Balin,” Gandalf said, putting out the cherry of ember in his pipe with a finger. “Your scouts shall be most discreet and they will not wake Durin’s Bane.” He furrowed his brows. “But a whole army stomping around Moria’s halls would.”

“And an orc army wouldn’t?” a Stiffbeard asked.

“The orcs would have avoided the deepest mines,” Gandalf said, “and you would not.”

Náin puffed out his chest. “Speak clearly, Tharkûn. This is not the first time you have mentioned Durin’s Bane. What is it you want from us?”

Gandalf looked at him, and his eyes were bright in the shadows across his face. “If you cannot be dissuaded from this mad endeavour, then at least get as much help as you can get. Send for the elves.”

Silence. 

Then an explosion of noise and movement.

Náin leapt to his feet. Gun pounded her fists onto the table. Sigur almost tore off his beard. One of the Firebeards threw a half-empty tankard.

Thorin valiantly resisted the urge to knock his head into the hardest thing in his reach, and ground his teeth.

Thorin had lost most of the feeling in his backside when he finally emerged from the stuffy tent into the crisp afternoon air. They had kept on shouting for hours, even though they had not remained on the topic of elves for long. The leaf-eaters could not be trusted, they could all agree on that, after all. Still, they had shouted. About Tharkûn, about Thorin allowing the wizard to be part of the council—as if Thorin could do anything about _ that _. What was he to do? Throw Gandalf out?—until Gandalf had joined the shouting and called them all thick-headed and foolishly proud.

Thorin blinked against the day’s brightness and grimaced, rolling his shoulders to get rid of the stiffness that came with sitting for too long.

“Prince Thorin,” someone said behind him.

“What,” he barked and twisted around. Bor took a startled step back, dipping his head in a short bow.

“Apologies, didn’ mean to startle you, your highness,” he hurried to say with a twist to his mouth. “‘S just, Master Baggins sent for you.”

Thorin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. The voice rebuking him for the outburst inside his head sounded suspiciously like Balin, and he held back another sigh. Then Bor’s words finally settled in his mind, and he straightened, a tightness behind his sternum.

“What’s the matter?”

“Oh, no cause for concern, no, no,” Bor said, flapping his hand. “Your brother, prince Frerin tha' is, he woke up a few hours ago now.”

He’d barely finished when Thorin turned on his heel and started all but running towards Mirrormere. The row of tents seemed to stretch endlessly as he hurried past.

Frerin was awake.

Thorin almost missed a step at the feeling in his chest. Like something heavy had been lifted, a weight he had not noticed until it was finally gone.

He pushed on, quickening his steps, and soon he had reached the ring of tents, and saw a group of healers had gathered in its centre. They were huddled together, peeking over one another’s shoulders and exchanging worried glances and whispered words.

Someone was yelling.

“Oh no! No, no, don’t do that!” That was Bilbo’s voice, and then there was another, quieter and deeper, saying something Thorin couldn’t make out this far away. 

“That! Don't you act coy now, it won't work on me! I have many young cousins, you know!”

Thorin pushed and elbowed a way through the ring of healers, and found Bilbo standing on the other side. He had propped one hand on his hip, the other was raised, a finger waggling, and was tapping one foot against the ground.

“And let me tell you, their puppy-dog eyes outdo yours by far. They’re much cuter, first of all!”

Frerin’s answering laughter was breathless, and the finest of sounds that had ever graced the Earth. Thorin swayed to the side but caught himself before he could knock into the dwarf next to him.

There was Frerin, on his feet, alive. One of his arms was thrown over an unhappy looking healer, the other wrapped around his abdomen where the wound lay beneath bandages. His braids were in a sorry state, and his forehead sweaty. But there was colour on his cheeks and a glint in his eyes, and he had never looked more beautiful. 

Thorin exhaled, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he closed his eyes for a short moment.

“Come now, Master Baggins,” Frerin said, voice slightly rough. “I’m sure I’ve heard somewhere that fresh air helps with healing.”

“Yes, well.” Bilbo frowned, nose twitching. “That fresh air is meant to be enjoyed from your bed, though.” He flapped his hands at Frerin. “Off you go now, back to your cot with you.”

“Ah.” Frerin tipped his head back into the sunlight and squinted at the sky. “I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. I’d much rather enjoy the sun for a while, since I’m already out here.” He grinned at Bilbo and shrugged one shoulder.

Bilbo huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, his foot still tapping a rhythm against the ground. They stared for a moment at one another, Bilbo with knitted brows, Frerin with an easy smile.

“Ráni,” Bilbo addressed the unhappy healer still supporting Frerin’s weight. Ráni looked at his feet, and Thorin heard him mumble something about royalty, and orders.

Bilbo threw up his hands. “Fine!” he cried. “Fine! At least sit down, then. At the fire, if you please!”

He stomped past them and into Óin’s tent, all the while muttering his outrage. The group of onlookers dispersed, their curiosity sated, and Thorin walked up to Frerin to slide his other arm over his own shoulders, for Frerin had begun tilting more and more onto poor Ráni.

“Took you long enough,” Frerin told him through a smirk, and Thorin knocked his forehead, gently, against Frerin’s unwounded temple.

“I just heard you were up,” Thorin said, “and already you are pestering the healers.”

“I’ve slept and rested long enough,” Frerin replied with a wince as they began making their way towards the fire. His good-natured facade slipped, for a moment, and he looked tired despite his words. “I need some ale.”

“I’m sure Bilbo has to say something on that matter,” Thorin said, stepping ahead to grasp Frerin beneath the shoulders and help him sit down on a chair someone had left next to the fire.

“Bilbo, is it now?” Frerin’s smirk belied the casualness of his tone.

Thorin let him drop the last couple inches and was gratified when Frerin yelped.

“I am wounded, brother,” Frerin moaned, “this is no way to treat someone who’s wounded!”

“You’ll live.” Thorin flicked at his ear, making him wince, and then sat down on the log next to his chair.

“Barely, and no thanks to you,” Frerin said and then turned towards the healer that was still hovering close by. “Ráni, was it?”

It took a moment, but Ráni nodded, and stiffened when Frerin grinned at him, his eyes wide as they flicked towards Thorin and back. Thorin sighed.

“Thank you for your help, friend Ráni,” Frerin said. “I think you deserve an ale for all the healing you’ve done today, hm?”

“Yes,” Ráni said, however, it sounded more like a question.

Frerin nodded and clapped a hand on Ráni’s forearm. “Good, good. Run along and get yourself something to drink, and while you’re already at it,” Frerin shrugged with a smile, “why not fill two more tankards and bring them to us, eh?”

Ráni hesitated, shooting a glance at Óin’s tent from which Bilbo’s angry muttering could still be heard. He winced when something clattered—loudly—inside it, and looked with wide eyes at Thorin.

“Don’t look at him now,” Frerin said, “my brother’s reached his limit of being reasonable for the day, with all the kinging he must’ve done. Now go and help us be reckless.” He flapped his hands at Ráni, who threw a last glance at Óin’s tent, and hurried off.

Thorin looked at the tips of his boots. There was a small pebble there, and he nudged at it with his right foot. Frerin was silent.

“So you know.” The words came haltingly, fighting all the way from his chest to his tongue.

“‘Course,” Frerin said, no trace of his usual good humour. No trace of anything, really. The word dropped onto Thorin’s shoulders like an icy weight, despite, or rather _ because _, it sounded hollow and devoid of emotion. “Óin told me.”

Thorin dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled. “I hope--”

“No worries,” Frerin interrupted him, “he was kind enough. For his standards.”

Thorin nodded, albeit with a grimace.

“I should have told you myself,” he said and reached down to pick up the pebble, brushing dust from it with his thumb. Its edges were blunt, filed round by water and time, and there were layered colours he hadn’t noticed before. Reds and browns and greens. He slipped the stone into his coat pocket. “I should have been there when you woke.”

Frerin snorted. “I’d have hit you if your ugly face had been the first thing to greet me.”

Thorin looked up to find a smirk curling Frerin’s lips.

“As it was, I had the pleasure of waking to _ Bilbo’s _fair visage in all its beardless glory.” He sighed, eyes seeking out the sky and one hand coming up to rest over his heart. “They should write ballads about his frown, his dulcet voice when he gets into a shouting match with Dáin, o, no finer creature has there ever been than Bilbo Baggins with his hairy--yow!”

Thorin gave another tug on the braids wrapped around his fist and Frerin hissed, his poor attempt at poetry trailing off into colourful curses.

“I’m sure he deserves it, but,” Bilbo said from behind them, making both of them jump, “I’d thank you to stop hurting your brother. At least until he’s healed and no longer my responsibility.”

Thorin let go of Frerin, who straightened and patted his hair down in a futile attempt to return some order to it, grumbling something or other about halflings and their light feet. Without much ceremony, Bilbo threw a blanket over Frerin’s head and shoulders, thwarting his efforts.

“Really now,” Bilbo said and crouched down in front of Frerin to pull the blanket close around him. “I didn’t stitch you back together for you to die of pneumonia.”

Bilbo froze. Thorin saw his hands twitch around the edge of the blanket, and caught his small, sharp intake of breath as he realized what he’d said. Then he let go of the blanket and dropped his head, his curls falling over his forehead to hide his face from view.

“I’m,” he began, looking up again and at the space between Thorin and Frerin, tongue flicking out to wet a cracked bottom lip.

“An enemy of fun?” Frerin offered and Bilbo blew out a long breath that ended in a startled chuckle. Frerin patted his shoulder lightly. “Come now, Master Baggins. Bilbo. I think you’re in desperate need of some ale and good company.”

As Bilbo made to protest, Frerin shook his head and wrapped his hand around Bilbo’s upper arm, tugging him up. “No, no, none of that now. I insist. And if that isn’t enough, I’ll order you. Thorin, make some room.” 

He made shooing motions at Thorin until he’d moved enough to allow some room between them. However, the log was not that long, and even though Bilbo was small, it would be a tight fit. Thorin caught Frerin’s gaze and cocked a brow at him, which made Frerin grin broadly, and wink.

“That would be an abuse of your power,” Bilbo protested but let himself be ushered towards the log.

“Eh, I’ve been accused of that before.”

“And you might be a prince,” Bilbo went on, bumping into Thorin’s leg as Frerin twisted him around and manhandled him onto his seat, so that he had to steady himself on Thorin’s shoulder lest he toppled off the other side of the log. Thorin caught him with a hand on the small of his back for good measure. Bilbo cleared his throat and withdrew his hand to tug his tunic back in place. “You might be a prince, but not mine. In fact, there has never been someone I’d call _ my _ prince. Because, hrm, ‘cause there is no royalty in the Shire, you see.”

“Really,” Thorin said, watching a dusting of red spread on Bilbo’s cheekbone. His hand stayed where he had put it.

“Yes, well. We have a Mayor, and a, a Thain, yes, but these are more titles than any real positions of power, and of course there’s also the Master of Buckland,” Bilbo said, laughing a bit. He shifted, and his leg was a line of warmth against Thorin's. “They don't do much apart from settling the occasional dispute over cabbage patches or property lines. But that’s only if the conflict cannot be solved over a nice supper with the help of some moonshine, which is seldom the case.” 

Frerin chuckled.

“With dwarfs, no conflict can be settled without at least three witnesses and a great deal of shouting, writing contracts, and the occasional battle.” He knocked a knuckle against his temple. “They say Mahal fashioned us from stone, and we try to prove it by being hard-headed whenever we can.”

“I’ve noticed,” Bilbo said through his grin. He patted down his tunic, and frowned when he didn’t find whatever he was looking for. “Drat. It seems I have misplaced my pipe.”

Thorin finally withdrew his hand from Bilbo’s back, fingers trailing over the curve of his flank before letting go to root around his pocket for his own pipe. He offered it to Bilbo with a small smile. “Here, you may use mine.”

Bilbo’s mouth formed a small o of surprise, and he hesitated for a moment, gaze flicking from the pipe to Thorin’s face, dropping to his lips, and then back to the pipe. He smiled. “Why, thank you.”

He reached out, his eyes meeting Thorin’s as their fingers brushed against one another. There was a weight to Bilbo’s gaze, a weight that made Thorin’s fingers twitch against his thigh, that settled between his shoulder blades, that dropped into his belly and spread from there throughout the rest of his body.

“Great!” Frerin clapped his hands onto his thighs. “Now that that’s settled, we just have to wait for Ráni to bring us something to wet our throats, so that Master Baggins can tell us more about hobbits.”

Bilbo snorted and turned away. Thorin looked towards the fire, but the dancing flames could not hold his gaze for long. From the corner of his eye, he watched Bilbo fiddle with the pipe. His fingers ran along its stem, feeling over the carvings there, a dimple between his brows as he seemed to weigh bis options. Finally, Bilbo shrugged and bit down on the wooden mouthpiece, turning towards Frerin.

“I suppose I could,” he said, sniffing and wiggling his nose. “Hopefully it’ll bore you to sleep and I’ll finally have some peace.”

Bilbo giggled and slumped against Thorin’s side, bumping his tankard of ale against Thorin’s thigh, some of its contents sloshing over the rim and drenching both their legs.

“Sorry,” he hiccuped, his free hand reaching for the edge of his tunic as he tried to dab some of the wetness from Thorin’s knee.

Thorin shook his head, his own smile curving his mouth as he looked down at Bilbo, gaze lingering on flushed cheeks, and dropping down to lips that shimmered with a trace of ale. He dragged down a deep breath and released it. “No worries.”

“Alright.” Bilbo patted the wet spot a few times, and then left his hand there. Thorin did his best to suppress a shiver, and failed.

“But I haven’t even told you the best part,” Frerin said, grin broad and toothy, “that day, a group of Blacklock envoys had arrived at Erebor, and Dwalin was escorting them to their rooms in the royal wing. And since they’re Blacklocks, you know, half of the entourage were dwarrowdams--”

“Oh, no,” Bilbo said, and Frerin’s grin got impossibly wider.

“Oh yes! So there’s Thorin, chasing our sister down the halls in all his naked glory, sopping wet, and before his first sprout, so not enough hair yet to cover the important bits,” Frerin waggled his eyebrows and Bilbo’s cheeks turned even redder, “and Dís rounds a corner, Thorin going after her, and there’s Balin with a dozen dwarrowdams behind him, all getting a good look at the crown jewels, you know, and Thorin still had that dagger in hand, remember, and--”

“No!” Bilbo said, eyes wide. Frerin laughed and nodded, clapping both of his hands over his crotch like Thorin had back then, but without the dagger. Bilbo gasped and looked at Thorin, and then, much to Thorin’s chagrin, glanced at Thorin’s lap before looking away again, the tips of his ears a startling red. Thorin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Frerin,” he ground out, but Frerin only laughed, raising his mug of tea towards his brother in a salute.

“And this is how Thorin II, crown prince of Erebor, got his first scar.”

Bilbo made a choked sound, hand flexing around Thorin’s knee.

“It was just a scratch,” Thorin said, and felt the need to clarify, “on my thigh.”

He felt warm. Some of the heat came from the fire, and some from his embarrassment, and some from the ale sloshing in his stomach. But most, he had to admit to himself, came from Bilbo, from his hand on Thorin's knee, and the way he had slumped, loose-limbed with ale, against Thorin's side. It was maddening—Thorin had his senses filled with Bilbo; he felt his weight resting against him, smelled the mixture of herbs and ointment that always clung to Bilbo, even over the smell of burning wood and smoke, heard him giggle his amusement over Frerin's tale, and saw the flush that had spread on his cheeks and painted the tips of his ears, the hollow of his neck, disappearing beneath the edge of his tunic. Thorin wondered how far down it would go.

Mahal help him.

Thorin shook his head softly, and swayed into Bilbo when the world around him tilted a bit. Bilbo's hand tightened for a moment around Thorin's knee.

“I think,” Bilbo said and peered into his tankard, “we’d all best get some rest now. Especially you, Frerin.”

Frerin opened his mouth, likely to protest, but was interrupted by his own yawn.

“I guess,” he said, blinking away the tears his yawn had brought to his eyes. Bilbo stood, draining the last of his ale, and helped Frerin stand, one of his arms slung across his shoulders. Thorin got up, too, and went to join them, supporting Frerin’s other side. Together, they made their way over to the tent. Frerin’s head drooped, coming to rest against Thorin’s shoulder for the last few steps.

By the time they had lowered Frerin onto his cot, his eyelids were only half open, and quickly fell shut once his head hit the pillow. Thorin stood aside as Bilbo tugged the furs and blankets across Frerin, and then rested the back of his hand against Frerin’s forehead for a moment.

Bilbo blew out a breath and straightened again, stretching as he did so, arms rising above his head and lifting the edge of his tunic a few inches. The left side of the shirt beneath had rucked up and slipped from the waistband to reveal a sliver of smooth skin.

“I hope this will have tired him out a bit,” Bilbo said and dropped his hands, smiling at Thorin over his shoulder. “Maybe I’ll get something done tomorrow apart from entertaining your brother, then.”

Thorin snorted. “You could always tie him to his cot.”

Bilbo chuckled and shook his head. “He’d get Ráni or one of the others to untie him in a matter of seconds.”

“Just leave him to Óin, then. He has experience in dealing with him,” Thorin said and took a step forward, his shoulder brushing against Bilbo’s as he came to stand beside him and looked down at Frerin’s face, young and peaceful in sleep.

Bilbo hummed and wiggled his nose as if he was considering the advice, and shrugged. “Thoughts for tomorrow,” he said. “Now I think I’d like to take a walk and get some air.” His shoulder bumped into Thorin’s, and Thorin looked at Bilbo to find him smiling at him.

“I think I could do with some fresh air myself,” Thorin said. “May I join you?”

“Of course.”

The healers’ tents lay mostly in silence, but the night breeze carried some conversation and singing from the rest of the camp towards them when they exited the tent. Bilbo stopped for a moment, breathing in deeply, and looked around.

“Let’s go to the lake,” he said. “I haven’t yet had the chance to take a proper look at it.”

Thorin nodded, and fell into step beside him. The voices from the camp grew quiet, then fell silent until there was only the whisper of the breeze and the sound of Thorin’s tread. Bilbo’s feet, naked as they were, made no sound against grass or stone, and they walked in silence until the tents lay behind them.

It was easy, then, to imagine that they were utterly alone, with only the stars bearing silent witness to their walk, no dwarfs looking to Thorin for guidance, no sick needing Bilbo’s attention. No Khazad-dûm waiting for the return of Durin’s heirs.

A weight lifted from Thorin’s shoulders, a weight he had not even noticed until it was finally gone, and he breathed a little easier.

They descended the slope leading down towards Mirrormere, and when Bilbo slipped on a loose rock, Thorin grasped his elbow to steady him. Bilbo laughed, and one of his hands was on Thorin’s chest, having come up when he’d stumbled into him.

“I think I might have drunk a bit too much,” Bilbo admitted, and Thorin wished he didn’t wear this much so he could feel Bilbo’s fingers move against his chest. Now he could only watch them tracing the edge of a silver clasp absent-mindedly, the leather and chainmail too thick to let any sensation through.

“You’re doing quite well, considering,” Thorin said. His voice was low and slightly rough, whispered into the darkness and the silence like a secret. “Dwarfish ale is not for the faint-hearted.”

Bilbo’s smile turned into a smirk, his teeth bright and sharp. “And yet it does not compare to hobbit moonshine.” He tapped his forefinger against the vee of Thorin’s tunic, only an inch away from skin and right above Thorin’s sternum. “Which is not good for any heart, faint or otherwise, I might add.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Thorin said. His throat clicked as he swallowed. “Maybe you could show it to me, some time.”

“I’d like to,” Bilbo said, and dragged his fingers along the small row of metal clasps that sat around the tunic’s neckline. “But only with a cot close by. I don’t think I could lift you, should you drink too much.”

“That can be arranged.”

They smiled at each other for a moment, until Bilbo withdrew his hand and they began walking again. Thorin’s hand slid from Bilbo’s elbow, but they walked so close together that their hands would brush against one another more often than not.

Mirrormere was black and smooth as glass, no wind rippling its surface, where the reflections of the stars above winked at them. They walked up to its very edge, Bilbo’s toes curling into the white stones that made up the shoreline.

Thorin pointed at a row of stars, three large ones and a few smaller ones sprinkled between, their reflection close to the edge of the water. “Durin’s crown.”

Bilbo crouched down and reached out, fingertips skimming the smooth surface and sending ripples across it that made Durin’s crown bob and dance. Thorin felt a smile tug on his lips, and he bent down next to Bilbo, the shadows of their heads only inches away from Durin’s crown.

“They say Durin came here in the days of yore and saw the reflection of the stars above his own reflection. They looked like a crown, and so he settled here and built Khazad-dûm.” Mirrormere’s water was cold around his fingers when he dipped them beneath the surface, and he pulled back, flicking the wetness from his skin. He could feel Bilbo’s gaze on the side of his face. “Now his crown lies here, in Mirrormere, waiting for Durin the Deathless to return once more.”

“Durin the Deathless,” Bilbo repeated, “that’s quite the epithet.”

“You don’t sound impressed by this honourable title of the first of my kin to walk this world,” Thorin said mildly.

“Well.” Bilbo sniffed. “It sounds a bit ominous, doesn’t it? The Deathless. It must be sad to return again and again, to be born into a new family and make new friends, to return again and find there’s no one left and then having to do it all over again.”

“I--” Thorin frowned, then shook his head and looked at Bilbo. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”

Bilbo smiled and sank down, his knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around his shins. He patted the ground next to him, and Thorin sat down, too.

“I think I prefer your new byname,” Bilbo said as he turned to look out over Mirrormere. “We hobbits cherish oak, it’s sturdy and strong. We use it for many things: for barrels and furnishings, and for building our hobbit-holes, which makes it especially important. Oakenshield. I think it fits you quite nicely.”

Thorin said nothing. His gaze dropped to his hands, which lay tangled in his lap, his knuckles white. He closed his eyes and felt Bilbo bump their shoulders together.

“A good name for a king.”

“I am not a king,” Thorin said, but even to his own ears, the protest sounded weak. Bilbo did not laugh at him, however, and Thorin felt him shift, his arm brushing against Thorin’s when he raised it.

“True. For now, you’re Thorin.”

Thorin’s eyes fluttered open and he sucked down a breath when there was a gentle tug on his braid. He looked down, and there were Bilbo’s fingers wrapped around the woven strands falling over his right shoulder, his thumb twisting the silver bead at their end.

Ever so slowly, Thorin let his gaze trail along Bilbo’s arm, towards his shoulder, over the crook of his neck, his throat, where he saw the flush spread even in the dim light, and finally to his face. Bilbo’s smile was a soft curve of the lips, its corners twitching, and his eyes were on Thorin’s face, flicking from his eyes to his mouth and back, locking their gazes.

“I think I like Thorin best,” Bilbo said, and his voice was a shaky whisper in the darkness and the silence, breathed into the shrinking space between the two of them.

Thorin did not reply to that, because his lips were on Bilbo’s then, and there was no need for words any longer.

Bilbo’s lips were chapped and cold against Thorin’s when he kissed him, a soft press of his mouth. He wasn’t shy, because that was not Thorin’s way, however, he was careful and gentle, unmoving as he waited for a second that stretched out into centuries. And then the hand around his braid tightened and tugged, and Bilbo breathed in, and Thorin could not restrain himself anymore.

He surged forward, one hand wrapping around the back of Bilbo’s head, fingers tangling in short curls. His other hand found Bilbo’s side, the rough fabric of the tunic sliding against his palm, and he dug his fingers in until Bilbo gasped, lips parting. Thorin licked into Bilbo’s mouth, tasting ale and a trace of smoke, and groaned when Bilbo’s tongue curled against his.

He pulled back half an inch, but found he could not stop, and leaned in again, their noses bumping into one another, and Bilbo giggled, nipping on his bottom lip. So Thorin tugged on his hair, and the noise Bilbo made then sent sparks along his spine, and heat pooled like molten metal in his stomach. He growled, because this was not enough, he needed more, more of this, more of Bilbo. More.

Bilbo’s knees knocked into his and there was a bit of awkward shuffling around as Thorin tried to pull Bilbo into his lap without breaking their kiss, and Bilbo tugged sharply at his braid when he lost his balance. But then Thorin had his hand beneath the back of Bilbo’s thigh, the other arm wrapped around his middle, and he lifted Bilbo, for a moment marveling at how light he was. Bilbo made a noise of protest against his lips, turned it into a hum when Thorin’s tongue flicked out for a taste, and then he didn’t seem to mind any more.

With Bilbo finally in his lap, Thorin’s hands wandered, dragging over his back and his sides as they kissed. When he reached the edge of Bilbo’s waistband, he tugged the shirt free, and spread his hands on warm, smooth skin, delighted at Bilbo’s shudder. Bilbo’s arms were wrapped around his neck, their chests pressed together.

Thorin thought he could stay like this for hours, kissing Bilbo, touching him, listening to the soft noises he made. Peeling back his clothes so that he could explore every inch of his skin until he had seen and touched and tasted it all, only to start over again once he had finished.

But Bilbo pushed on his shoulders until Thorin finally relented and pulled back, drinking in the sight of him. Bilbo’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes dark below lowered lids, his lips red and slick and plump. His chest heaved with his breaths, and he shuddered when Thorin ran his fingertips along his side, over his ribs and around and up to his shoulder blades.

“We should return to camp,” Bilbo said, voice breathless and brittle. “Someone will wonder eventually where you are.”

Thorin dragged his hands down his back, next to his spine on each side, and wrapped them around his hips, fingertips digging into muscles as he pulled Bilbo down. Bilbo gasped and let his head fall forward against Thorin’s shoulder, burying his face in the crook of his neck, breath brushing wet and hot over the hollow of Thorin’s throat so that he shuddered.

“Not yet.” His voice was hoarse and deep, and carried the bite of a desperate hunger. Bilbo shivered and Thorin reached up to pull on his hair until he raised his head and bared his throat, letting Thorin trail kisses, and nip and lick along its side.

White stars shimmered on the dark waters of Mirrormere and caught Thorin’s gaze. He sucked down a breath and smelled bitter herbs and sweet flowers. There sat Durin’s crown above the shadow of a curly head of hair, and for a moment, Thorin could not breathe.

Then he felt Bilbo’s fingers against his cheek, and he tore his gaze away to meet Bilbo’s. There was a line between his brows, carved by worry, and Thorin smoothed it away with a thumb. He could almost see the question on Bilbo’s lips, but he swallowed it with a kiss, soft and gentle, and Bilbo returned it in kind until they both pulled apart.

Thorin rested his forehead against Bilbo’s and breathed, his eyes closed. 

On the inside of his eyelids, he found the image of Durin’s crown above Bilbo’s head waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yanâd Durinul - Sons of Durin  
Ai-rusê - upon the filth  
Khazâd ai-menû - the dwarves are upon you  
Itkitî - Silence!/Shut up! (plural)
> 
> (Don't give me a Khuzdul dictionary, I _will_ abuse it.)
> 
> Herb Lore:  
Chamomile, Lavender and [Valerian root](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Valerian_\(herb\)) helps you sleep. The latter also helps with anxiety.  
Sweet-wood is liquorice, translated from the German word "Süßholz".
> 
> I wrote the first two parts of this chapter while listening to [The Edge of Night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BH6aLSoUB_Y) (which Pippin sings in the Return of the King) on repeat, and I think it shows. Heh.  
The last part I wrote on not enough sleep, and I think that shows too. Eh.
> 
> I try to update weekly, so this chapter is a tad late. Sorry for that! But I hope you'll forgive me, since this chapter is extra long.


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